Adrian T. Quintanar

Psychopomp

Perhaps life was meant to end
like this: fisheyes spiraling
across the caution typeface,
the steady burn of diodes
catching in stucco nooks,
bungalow doors gnawed.
The slender digit gnarled
snug on a Glock’s cold, wet
tongue. Like hollow-point
gold
          that flowers carmine
out sagittal crests, the
fangs bared from jaws of a dog,
smoke-hued and rattleboned.
The coming spell of comity
cindering in your sclera, lungs.
Someone collecting the matter
charged on grass & sidewalk,
someone emptying your dozing head
back into shaky palms of a loved one.
Someone to desperately offer warmth,
offer your molt understanding:
this is not just pattern, this is ageless,
it is ritual. Animals extolling earthshine.
But there is no moon, no stars,
nothing but owl song, the scatter
of a possum, the quiet brick wall
marked with aerosol letters,
memory of a person outlined
in the forgetful
                           mind of midnight.

 

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Adrian T. Quintanar is a poet from Pomona, California who earned an MFA from the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Adrian’s poems previously appeared in Denver Quarterly and elsewhere.