The Year I Went Without Saying the Rosary

I must have bought a bad batch. A thousand rounds in, and I’m not sure what
sounds good anymore. Gods blur into one. Come in gel form. And I’ve secretly
worried the world down to two sad-eyed beads. Where doubt troubles the blood.
And doubles the size of my heart. I’ve become versed in a fever hundreds
of years on the take. Lord, you are kissed dull, heaven-sick. Yet, here is the tree
that you ate from. There, the sky treated with this non-stick surface. Under which
I’ve miked every inch of my body. Trained a camera to take the place of my
brain. Still, none of them will have it. The brunt of my visions turned into three 
or four rows in a survey. My beatific nod an unusable bust. What was once sacred
now crabbed in a corner, discredited. Maybe, if I bore down even harder,
the saints would adore me. Take me out on the road. Rub me in spots that were
never an option. But I am too stubborn with worry to notice, be noticed. Wanting
only to sleep for a spell. Eat something other than a tree. Because I am nothing.
If not hung from an unauthorized height. Lousy with an unkind light. This loosest
translation for soul.

ξ

The Year I Went Without Playing Monopoly (House Rules)

I am another man’s other. You, his stepmother. Together, we work the arrow
back farther toward our own wordlessness, selling-off. And then take our two
cards. One, labeled “Autobiography.” And another, “Not To Be.” Yes, I am
bored with my “Robber Self.” You, with the “Leftovers Made Flesh.”
And unbelievably sore from the aftereffects of our laughter. So, out-there loud. So,
fed-up. I roll again, armed with this smallest of crowbars. To a spot named
“Resort” we’ve nicknamed “It’s a Toss-Up.” And you, with a lamb, to either
“State Fair” or “Air Raid Shelter.” Taking a second to reorder score sheets.
And then square up your bill with the “Rug Vender.” The table quakes. We eat
barbeque anything. And every row I thought conquered is worn down to the most
thorough of wonderments, brownish flames. Then later, on a dare, the last
of any our roses, re-imagined as the first. And what ain’t, hopefully settling 
for a near-letting-up, final descent into sainthood. Before then you’ll have landed on
all the good will I have squandered. Crab into an arbitrary sign. But this is now
ages ago. Eons upon eons. When the only drawback to uncontrollable awe 
was the watermarks. That gnawing readiness to dream unambiguously or grab-bag
whatever had been revving a bit in the vicinity of your head. With only me
to thank for it. Think otherwise.

ξ

Poems from Mark DeCarteret’s manuscript The Year I/We Went Without have been taken by The American Poetry Review, Asheville Poetry Review, BlazeVOX, Gargoyle, Hole in the Head Review, Map Literary, Nixes Mate Review, On the Seawall, Plume, and Unbroken.