Timothy Pilgrim


Light weight

Sleepless, driving at night,
scientists have discovered 
light is not lithe — has weight,

packs a few pounds, needs 
time at the gym. Likely detected 
by accident — Audi high-beams

wouldn’t straight-line though black —
dipped, plowed down, skidded 
into pavement ninety meters out. 

Another event, flashlight out back,
beam fell well short of the fence —
white-bright slowed, dived,

skidded in damp grass.Virile fire
atop candle drooped as well,
lit its own shaft. Same fate for match.

In a flash, our faith in light snuffed,
doused, put out. Eternal flames
now weighed down forever,

doomed by corpulent shine. The end —
coming heavy, too, for low-cal soda,
ice cream, any beer labeled lite.



Rain damage

My son, myself, shoots curses
at a darkened world, closes blinds,
shuts out the storm. Inside, I’m dry,

safe, alone. As for my father, me,
we self-loathe, pelt doubt on us,
with fury, prefer to fondle night.

Lightning strikes nearby, strikes
again, I shudder against thunder,
hug myself, my next of kin,

fold heart, crease it, lock it 
closed-chest, in. Dismiss
thoughts of crevice, vent, slot,

slit. Refuse to admit rain —
even through tiny needled eye
lest it ruin clean floors inside.



At the put-in, before the float
(for the Russian president)

No,
I am not a good target —
clouds hang low,
cover me, blanket me,
sock me in. 
I do not possess weapons
eager to kill everyone 
with sight — or without.
No bombs smart enough 
to play chess. Nor chemicals,
six slender vials of which
makes people death dance,
do the final twitch.

Yes,
I do float imagined rivers, 
fear my raft carries
rockets, tanks, bombs — 
I break each like a fly rod,
toss them overboard,
savor the reflection
of a skinny-dipping sky.
I conjure Pandora, her box,
missiles inside vibrating, eager 
to escape. I close the lid, 
steer toward peace downstream.
I help her go all the way.

Timothy Pilgrim, a Pacific Northwest poet, has a few hundred acceptances from U.S. journals such as Seattle Review, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday, and Santa Ana River Review, and international journals such as Windsor Review and Toasted Cheese in Canada, and Otoliths in Australia. He is the author of Seduced by metaphor (2021).

 
 

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