Three Poems by Carolyn Guinzio

​Carolyn Guinzio

Carolyn Guinzio. Old wire, 2014. Courtesy of the artist.

Dead Links

A hammer was wrapped
in a canvas bag, gagging

the piano’s middle C.
I think you’re trying

to tell me something. Once, 
I stood near the river

so long, I heard two of them 
whispering in a tree. He said,

It’s about so much more
than the sound. I think

he was trying to be funny.
A group of them were shuffling

onto the top deck of a purple bus. 
I think they were in for a treat.

Sharp-ended ice was raining 
from the awnings of interest,

and every arthritic had faith 
it was true: they knew without

having to see. All the angora 
berets were just so, the lavender

and the gray, on the way 
to the big store downtown.

Gone comes the grevious
moan from the grate.

I think I can hear it now. 
Gone. When the angles

evaporate, all that remains
is a neverending round of

 

I Heard A Phone Buzz

I heard a Phone buzz— when I died—
The Signal and Glow hurtled down
From the Sky—Between Blinks 
Of the Tower— A Great red Eye—

Encased in metal Thorns— It seemed
A Wounded tree. Turning face-
Down on the table— The Phone did not know
I did not need to know— the Day’s high—

The Night’s low— A moan from Deep in the works—
A Window’s frozen blue cracked Screen—
Suspended in a corner was the Symbol
Of a Burning Moon or Please Do Not Disturb—

 

Password

A key broke its neck 
in the lock. Around
back, a nest of blue

bombing jays would peck 
at our ducking
heads and flash

away with our hair
in their beaks. Yellow-
jackets blocked the way

to the basement
with a quiver of stings.
There was something

sharp and striped curled 
around a rung
of the ladder. The mud-

spattered skylight
was cracked
by webs, and half-

sleeping bats
lined the chimney
with the angles

of their ears. If only 
the windows knew us 
from a storm

or a thief who would bash 
in the glass and spirit 
away what is ours—

away over the petrified
prints that waited 
deep down under the grass.

A poet and photographer, Carolyn Guinzio is the author of Spoke & Dark (Red Hen, 2012), Quarry (Parlor, 2008), and West Pullman (Bordighera, 2005). She lives in Fayetteville, AR. For more visit carolynguinzio.tumblr.com.

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