Midnight on Easter
Oh what I would do with a hammer
and nails around my apartment. What
edicts I would affix to the outside
of my landlord’s door like Martin Luther
but more sour if that were possible. The 95
bottles of beer on the wall I’m singing about
could get nailed in for good. I tell you I’m out
three grand from this man, the indulgences
and severance fees he’s inflicted on us—
meaning you and me in this kitchen babe
but also the unwashed tenants, the ones
nailing signs in their yards for politicians
with last names like plagues: Flood, Blood,
and Boyle. What use is that for a hammer?
Surrender them to me and I’ll grant you freedom
from frogs and first-borns, I’ll lead you out
with matzoh, the kind of freedom only found
in the vulgate.
What’s that? Oh sure. We break up
a head of iceberg lettuce you and I go together
the song says in the background and I sing
along about the coming day of reckoning
the hammer smashing through the head of
lettuce like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga
dong and someone’s at the door to tell us we’re
playing our music too loud. I scream who is it
protestors or protestants and at this point I’m
drunk, sure, now. You take the hammer, you’re
going. I just wanted to say that I love you.
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James Butler-Gruett‘s poetry, fiction, and book reviews have appeared in Poetry London, Windows Facing Windows Review, DIAGRAM, On the Seawall, and elsewhere. He earned his MFA from the University of Arizona. Find him on Twitter @etinarcadia3go.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 