Crooked House
A houseguest death
wish holds me hostage.
I buzz among misaligned porch
railings, cracks in the newel post
struggling like an arthritic finger
to point—the overwhelming blooming
bush, whites the wasps like,
their candy coats brass knuckled
as wind chimes. A swarm of warning
near my ear, distant ice
cream sirens, their singing stray
yowls at the door, tongues
pink as peeled cans of salmon,
nests of wood pulp
spit between teeth. From the outside
up into its square eyes, the houses, the birds,
the nearby airports’
low flying private jets, the higher
commercial vibrations where propellers grate
our dead-end street bring traffic.
Driveways like Hockney sprinklers
one after the next at just the right time
the sun corners the street no man
thought worth harnessing
such domestic power. Perennials
planted from my terrace. Every plot green
varieties of grass run amok. Everything lately
a sign from the other side to swat at
with my writing pad. It is enough to brush
the cat in quiet. The purr I stir
evolves into a trick that bites. Treating
it as a ghost a spirit in my presence
letting it know I am safe to approach;
to enter and possess the vessel open
and emptied. A small space made gray
from pops of green
and the baby blue princess
phone, the sky through only one line
of glass, mirrors to play
the light, bully the shadows over there.
Not cat poems, puppies, no: beasts
snarling and striped with fur,
raising in salute some god
unknown from this pink
paper pad, this skin outside
these poems, the gunk-eye
unflushed and bleeding at the gums.
And you the thing I eat, that I hunt
at night, drunk on three
vodkas tearing you
apart, fuck limb
by limb: I go for the heart.
Interior Design
Another couple fights
in the distance, through
the rain one voice over
the other. Don’t you dare
live on it (the furniture
distant uncles unspeaking
from corners in black
at a wake) my own man
seems to be saying, hung
by jury though by two
is no three complicating
the coin flip. We draw
flies as moon water
full tide. My crazy hair,
my traffic hands,
my honking gander
fear, roaming turkeys, flocks
of long-necked birds confront
and chase me down in dreams,
my teeth are eggs. I keep meaning
to tell my doctor my heart
is chattering full of them,
that dying’s been made
clear this year. The cat left
to chew carpet, doing it
to herself despite duct taping
where plush end meets wood.
All water, choking on it, hidden
beneath the bed, behind a box
of Austrian beer stein hand-me-downs,
dying. Craftsmanship in the so-called
damage to the nicked base
of a bookshelf, a home
office the den he surrenders
though I don’t mind damaged.
I am nearing the end
of my third drink one-eyed,
trying for the straightest
line without doubling
the leather smell
into skins this small room
stresses. I implore
him telepathically
to apologize already,
the rain has reached
its limit, outside living
still in puddles streetlamps
capture. I once puzzled
together the method
in which weather reporters
measured inches
of fallen rain. Hard
to imagine each drop
adding up to that much:
a crowd joining the couple
now, gathering
for either a brawl
or one hell of a party.
Fuckin’ Tamra
I hate that you’re my Real
Housewife touchstone
and not even my type,
the scum risen
born again to the surface.
The demarcation swim
up bar loving a body shot
edge-playing lady
pools happy to have you.
You find people who will
have you, I’ll give you that, Tamra.
I hate you for being forty-three
in this episode, thirteen years ago
you seemed so old. Now,
two years off from where
you are, my life feels equally
fresh, my big debut middle-
aged and I hate you
for that, Tamra.
I’ll say again I hate Tamra
reflecting me. So much
to break down between the two
of us, Tamra. Why did you
come back? All biker babe to boot,
and after giving Gretchen
all that shit, you talk
all your shit. You stir and dwell
and lift weights in bikini tops,
your rock hard chest: I’m jealous.
Divorcing your Sunday conservative
roundtable of a husband
though he’s still hotter
than your younger Eddie,
all those rumors
a main trope franchise-wide,
repeating the worst.
But god doesn’t she deserve it,
isn’t it karma for Tamra
to eternally suffer? Slipping
outside a hot tub
while Shannon soaks in Spanks
and it’s Vicki carted off to another
foreign hospital: tres amigas.
But why not instead ride solo
off into the sunset, Tamra,
on your shiny show hog
towards your blogs and podcast
without that gnat
you and Kyle keep trying to make
happen, but I digress,
I can’t take life advice from John
Mellencamp’s daughter’s brand
of accountability. You should see
her Taco Tuesday cheat: lettuce,
honey. A platter of air.
Squirreling Away Nuts
I.
When I lose my marbles
I will still have some to fall
back on
and coast before
anyone notices
I’ve flipped
my card. Thirteen bones
armored for sleep, bleached
horse saddled beneath,
black-flagged flower
proceeding
to nod the crowd
farewell. Parading
on my own damn knees
demanding confession,
answers as if possible.
Each nugget the gold
standard crutched in tercet.
Mindful that the packing
be loose, burying outside
this mason’s compressing
step to behold a rising
compulsion: pure Merricat
resurrection, my lamb.
Property landmined
with books, other words
better than mine
combined. The same idea
shelled, a tense rubber band
ball cocked back.
II.
The kitchen pantry has me
transfixed, dissociating over
a jug of cashew halves
and pieces. I will soon be
impotent and yet to sire
children, thank god,
but I wonder how
I’d do at daddy.
My mornings become
theirs, mostly silences
chanced in-between,
counting on one six-fingered
and full of chances, gripping
the stock of my ancestors
as if a vial of horse pills
dozy in bed and fed
chocolate. Another nut
butters my eyes.
I’ve abstained
any other from my insides.
The draft in here, I am
sure there is no yelling
in this museum
to test my theory of echoes
returning changed,
not quite the same but
with my father’s eyes.
And that will do to tell
what’s mine. All of it
mine, mine. Sliding,
slithery in night
creams, routines wearing
this old dog down.
III.
Modern death is funeral-less,
shrouded in celebration, without
gathering grievers publicly
in all black with these
pills. Really there’s aren’t x-rays.
No see-throughs, peekaboos.
Modest to the neck
throats as pale as feet
mending the animal
lack in prayer, a voice
of pulpit stain and secular
sex. Nets
the size of Easter baskets
missing insects
through the braid, wings
too small yet to clip.
It is almost over. My things
will spill out after me
wanting to follow. A lake
pulled back with tide barely
breathes. Squat logs lodge
beer bottles, my spit breaking
down nuts. Once I pry that
mouth open you’re mine.
Patrick Paridee Samuel is the author of And Another Thing (Broken Sleep Books, 2025) and the chapbook A Suite of Heads (Ghost City Review, 2024). His most recent work appears or is forthcoming in Allium, Beaver Magazine, Frozen Sea, Ghost City Review, Maudlin House, Poetry, SWING, and Waxing and Waning. Patrick received an MFA from Columbia College Chicago, and currently lives in Nashville where he works in university press publishing.
