Early May
by J. Marcus Weekley

            a response to Simic

The hearse comes up the driveway
with no news.
At the edge of a rose bush
an excitable jay bobs and shakes his head
and does it again, again, like a question.
There is nothing on the ground,
no tragedies or great joy to come.

This morning I sang Aretha
to the neighbors.
I wasn’t sure what they’d
think, if they’d call the cops,
so I went over there,
only a towel.
They thought I was a wild
animal with one life
to fight for, one life to yowl
and finally inhabit.

This evening, was it Friday?
The underworld did its part
by making shadow puppets in the grass
and on the walls of our house,
branch arms and fingers reaching
for the baby’s quilt,
like they wanted someone to hug.

J. Marcus Weekley was born in Chattanooga, Tennessee, though he currently lives in Gulfport, Mississippi, and has lived in over seven states and three countries. He is also a photographer and a quilter, and his images accompany the essays of Gail Folkins in Texas Dance Halls: a Two-Step Circuit. Marcus' writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry International, versal, The Iowa Review, and Quick Fiction, among others. His self-published books include from four years and Look Out Below and Other Tales, among others. View more of his work at www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2.

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