Matthew Caretti

Synesthesia

So soon like children’s laughter perched
atop the carcass of a beached whale
or Christmas song harmonies sung
in the swelter of South Sea islands.

After all these swift years still
uncertain if the sea is more sound
and fury or the wrinkle I feel of a soft
blue sheet tucked into the horizon.

Hearing the waterfall I find a dry wall
of lava rock, where the blowhole ruptures
a seasalt tongue, angel terns glide
into thunder and the sated dog’s bay

becomes the moon. Suddenly no stench
from the chuckety-chuck of the cannery
nor the coral reef riffing at ebb tide
as the slow arch of pastel rainbows.

In this world on fire with figurative
innuendo red is all that makes sense,
a paroxysm of paradox ringing into
each false equivalency on the news.

Altar of Unrest

God has left us with nothing.
Where is my father? Dead
Now fifteen years. More. Not
Gone gentle. His questions
Beget further questions.
A garage full of boxes
And paradoxes of love. All
That his sons won inside.
Tarnished trophies and a first
Baseball mitt. Photos of forgotten
Worlds we once visited—
Station wagon stories with
Cigarette burns, the smoke
Thick with laughter and tears.
Where is my father now? God
Might know a thing or two about
Love for a son. But this father
Sacrificed himself on the altar of
Unrest, resting only in what
He could never know. No occasion
Though for the insoluble loss
Of time. Of wars at home
And abroad. Another ration
With smokes and rusted tins
To heal the wounded
Heart of a million lies. No
Not this. Not this ever
Again, the light of love lost
In some distant jungle. Too far
Away. I, …
I don’t know the way. Where
Is my father?