joshua michael stewart joshua michael stewart is originally from sandusky, ohio, but has lived in western massachusetts for the past 14 years. his poems have been published in rattle, sanskrit, booglit, the south boston literary gazette, maelstrom and soon in wavelength and the unknown writer. www.authorsden.com/joshuamichaelstewart   Marriage and identity Lying in bed next to each other in separate rooms, judging the distance in years. Two paper dolls with attaching hands desperately wishing to tear away. Petrified in the dark, wary of ripping off our own arms.   Spork after Charles Simic Like the homeless man that bums for quarters in front of the drugstore its middle tooth is missing, lost while prying off a bottle cap. I don't think it's ever killed anyone, but since it was replaced by inherited silverware, and demoted to digging out pebbles lodged in the tread of sneakers I've waken in the night to diabolical muttering coming from the junk drawer.   The lost painting of norman rockwell: american made, 1944 The old woman fox-trotting around the town fountain in the nude. Her white pubic hair mistaken for Walt Whitman. The policeman blowing a silver whistle. The mime-face crowd filling white space. Standing among them a middle-aged man, smoking a pipe. The two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels fucking at his feet.   Renga pumpkins rot on the front porch and forest expose their innards her breasts beautiful the coroner's hands shake old couple lie in bed snow falls outside their window the ticking of a clock broken glass in kitchen sink a woman crying in her soapy hands clouds sludge over fields a man crossing an icy stream carrying his dead son fishing vessels grow, the sun drowns tired-eyed women on shore sigh moon pours milk in lake as our naked bodies tangle and weave peasants dance and pray for rain fields along the road reek of urine you're in a wild west flick you've a horse named roxy a gal called bullet you're shot dead even before the lights dim   The great entertainer The movie theater's dark. Except for the old man slouching in the back row, we have the place to ourselves. You lean over, nibble my ear and kiss my neck. I slide my hand under your blouse, over your bra. On screen a bag lady's eaten alive by a horde of rats. I'm halfway down your jeans. The old man's snoring. Across town two kids throw a sack of kittens down the sewer, hop on their shiny bicycles, and race to the ice cream shop. In town square a faceless man ties a noose for another faceless man. The horse is slapped on the ass. Death kicks at the air, sticks out its tongue. If the crowd throw roses Death will go home to a hot meal. If they throw down their firstborn: an encore, and night of cold leftovers.

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