Ace Boggess

Unemployed

My short rap sheet says stay home, 

hide out in quiet labor. I do, 

wonder if a job exists to reframe my past.

 

Last time, I tried cold calls—

three days, one sale, not enough to keep me on.

Before, I made a decent jailhouse lawyer. 

 

Freedom has consequences

like finding money to fix a car

that should be shot, put down, eased to rest 

 

in silence like when no one’s on the line

to whisper, I love what you did

with your emptiness.





My short rap sheet says stay home, 

hide out in quiet labor. I do, 

wonder if a job exists to reframe my past.

 

Last time, I tried cold calls—

three days, one sale, not enough to keep me on.

Before, I made a decent jailhouse lawyer. 

 

Freedom has consequences

like finding money to fix a car

that should be shot, put down, eased to rest 

 

in silence like when no one’s on the line

to whisper, I love what you did

with your emptiness.





We Need a New Freedom

We discuss feeling trapped by circumstances:

her working a dead-end job, my failing to find one

beyond the fragile art between blue lines.

 

She thinks we’re like peacocks at the zoo: not caged,

but where would they go, what larger world

might they explore outside their squawking circles 

 

of home confinement? I believe I can do more. 

I’m watching YouTube videos

on how to replace doorknobs or change the guts on toilet tanks,

 

things I should’ve learned as a child, 

along with how to check the coolant in my car,

build a shelf, fry eggs, survive. 

 

I was always short-term practical about domestic scholarship:

it took time that slowed projects,

prevented me from running fingers 

 

down the cool, smooth pages of books.

If I’m trapped as she says, it’s by inexperience,

my history. I’d like to loosen those chains,

 

heavy & looped around my waist.

I don’t even know if keys exist

to all the locks that bind me to this place.




We discuss feeling trapped by circumstances:

her working a dead-end job, my failing to find one

beyond the fragile art between blue lines.

 

She thinks we’re like peacocks at the zoo: not caged,

but where would they go, what larger world

might they explore outside their squawking circles 

 

of home confinement? I believe I can do more. 

I’m watching YouTube videos

on how to replace doorknobs or change the guts on toilet tanks,

 

things I should’ve learned as a child, 

along with how to check the coolant in my car,

build a shelf, fry eggs, survive. 

 

I was always short-term practical about domestic scholarship:

it took time that slowed projects,

prevented me from running fingers 

 

down the cool, smooth pages of books.

If I’m trapped as she says, it’s by inexperience,

my history. I’d like to loosen those chains,

 

heavy & looped around my waist.

I don’t even know if keys exist

to all the locks that bind me to this place.




After the Air Settles

Debris-speckled lawn from last night’s wind,

fifty-mph gusts. A limb

the size of a ceremonial cannon

aims across the hedge.

Holes in the ground have holes in them

from sticks that struck at angles,

verdant leaves rising like freshly-planted shrubs.

 

In darkness, upper branches danced at a rave

to the monotone yawp.

Clean-up’s next as if to remove empty beer bottles,

stinking puddles, broken hearts.

To walk among graves of the recent past

is to mourn oneself, the closeness.

Damage or disaster—what’s the difference?




Debris-speckled lawn from last night’s wind,

fifty-mph gusts. A limb

the size of a ceremonial cannon

aims across the hedge.

Holes in the ground have holes in them

from sticks that struck at angles,

verdant leaves rising like freshly-planted shrubs.

 

In darkness, upper branches danced at a rave

to the monotone yawp.

Clean-up’s next as if to remove empty beer bottles,

stinking puddles, broken hearts.

To walk among graves of the recent past

is to mourn oneself, the closeness.

Damage or disaster—what’s the difference?




Ace Boggess

Ace Boggess is author of five books of poetry—Misadventure, I Have Lost the Art of Dreaming It So, Ultra Deep Field, The Prisoners, and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled—and the novels States of Mercy and A Song Without a Melody. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Mid-American Review, River Styx, and many other journals. He received a fellowship from the West Virginia Commission on the Arts and spent five years in a West Virginia prison. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia. His sixth collection, Escape Envy, is forthcoming from Brick Road Poetry Press in 2021.