2 poems by Merrie Snell

Bucket List: A Rebuttal

Life

tallied in vitro.

Shall we compare? Paris? Hang-glide?

The altitudes touristed in fragments of to-do.

Next year, maybe, time will stretch in all

directions. Projected forensics,

stomach-content divinations,

Paul McCartney’s autograph achieved?

Check!

Life,

meanwhile, life

in vivo, untallied.

Amateur

(lover of), my dad played trumpet

(for love), practiced Carnival of Venice

red-faced, triple-tongued, straining for

the son-of-a-bitch notes, intonation

fickle, his time passable,

evolving skills unfinished. Then

Stardust:

elongating phrasing, push and pull, the throated

lows inside the bell breathing liquid into speech

through tight-lipped embouchure. For love

the spit valves open. Saliva needs a floor.

Crowds of cloud block the sun and

only then you feel the day’s fresh air,

flick your tongue, catch the taste

of suet balls, fox tail and dung.

The sweet, domestic brine.

Masking-tape holds the tumble zone

in place. A slug’s trace binds the rest.

Here’s a list:

his organs shared.

Kidneys

Liver

Parts unwasted.

Heart appointed,

travelling, still warm, same as in

—goddammit—life.

Hypochondria: A Memoir

Somatise your expectations.

They belong in the body

along with your words,

blood, hives, nerves. Like ivy

ropes they dog the brick.

You’ll find comfort in portent.

The skin is kinder when rapt

by your tender attentions. Try not

to see your doctor nor rely

on loved ones. They will tire—

have tired—of your rapid heart

rapping alarms on pin boards,

raising the banns on Monday’s

aches, the recumbent pains.

Consultants, rushed, dismiss

complaints. Distracted tattoo

artists get the spelling wrong.

Humour helps. Hindsight, too.

That trick of light? The short end

of your cigarette. The lasting cough?

Your better judgment

blowing smoke, tricked again.

But how?, you say. We’ve come

so far, my roving arthralgias

and myself. The bones! The merits

read on warts, the scalp’s

follicular debit! Speak

only this. Your evidence,

hidden abscess, Achilles

love a crippling knot.

A diagnosis, that.

___________

Merrie Snell is an American writer, artist, and academic living in the wilds of Northumberland, England. Her work has appeared in The New England Review, AGNI, Cimarron Review, Rust & Moth, and elsewhere. She teaches music at Newcastle University where she’s trying to resurrect the word ‘groovy’.

These poems were chosen by Anthropocene Guest Editor HLR.