Practicing Division

In third grade math we practiced
Division in a bleachy clean Catholic
Classroom taught by sister Clarina.
She hunched with the weight
Of our sins on her back.

Thomas complained of stomach pains
During a particularly difficult test.
“You sinner”
She deemed him as he ran from
His desk to the hall without consent.
Sister resurrected, fled to the hall,

Slipped in his expelled vomit
And broke her back in three pieces.
Amen.

poem by Braden Coucher
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The Drive Through

My father drives on, the rising sun
Just forward of his blind spot,
Pale faced and downward beaming
ear to ear into the flats of salt, then arches.
We eat, break, fast, drink
beer, soda or soft
drinks and I hold his hand.

America changes to wale skin
From dust, my father’s hand, shaking mine
On the stick of the transmission, the transition
To grey from a full head of dusty red
Sand ahead. The last hours on salt flats
Burn out, radio statics and I hold my breath.
The drive through, America
To new hues of deep blues seems too
See-through to be you
America.

poem by Braden Coucher
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Change?

Leather
And cedar beard on brown bottle
Against stucco, pale and off white
Outside 711 waiting on Jesus
With Squared paper cup
And trout grimace, glass lake eyes.

Mercedes
Silver, hum and beeb
His shoes reflecting the moon
And tiny jewelry string laces
Dancing a tap asphalt onto curb
And jostled hockey fraternal
Elbow thrusting door open
Half jog and gum chewer.

The Street’s carved into parallel hills
And manholes engraved where
January water curdles in
Streams thin as whiskers

[...] Read more

poem by Braden Coucher
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