Doug Paul Case | Poetry

from LETTER TO THE ALIENS

when we become ill we are forced
into listening to our bodies
for once to the particular
cerulean humming of our veins within
our skin and our houses vibrating
as the yellow teakettle does
connected to the stove then floor
then frame then bed we cannot
crawl out of no
matter our thirst and the heat
climbing through our organs
heaving with mucus
virus-infiltrated and unable
dear aliens
to reach the thermostat
nor the cord dangling just
there to the blinds
allowing the light we know
dear aliens
is necessary but how
it glares and how
the cars outside love to go on honking

.

.

IT’S 63º IN ANTARCTICA

and I don’t know how seasons work
down there but it’s April in Indiana
and yesterday I saw snowflakes and
if that doesn’t say WE’RE FUCKED
then what will. My father tells me
it’s fine, that everything’s fine,
that humans will survive whatever
it is that isn’t happening, and I’m like,
whatever, humans, whatever, but
WHAT ABOUT THE GAY PENGUINS
AND THEIR TINY UNHATCHED EGG
and he switches the subject and asks
SO ARE YOU COMING TO THE FAMILY
PICNIC THIS YEAR because
he doesn’t have an actual response
because he doesn’t care about
the gay penguins and I suspect
won’t ever, not really, and that’s fine,
I’ve gotten over that a long time ago,
but how will we get over this.

.

.


Doug Paul Case works as a salon receptionist in Bloomington, where he recently earned his MFA from Indiana University. He is the poetry editor of Word Riot and Gabby, and the author of two chapbooks: Something to Hide My Face In and College Town.

2018-11-25T02:16:32+00:00