On The Day It Rained Horses, I Swallowed
A Birdhouse
When they looked inside your guts they found salt crystals the size of apples. They told you angels
had been sleeping there. The beds were freshly made and still warm. They asked if you had any en
emies, people who might have a grudge against you, might want to hurt you. Caught off guard, you s
tarted quoting Tolstoy. Their eyebrows shot up like bottlerockets, foreheads like week old newspap
ers, wrinkled. You cleared your throat, embarrassed, and said “No...Not that I can think of.” Outsi
de, a bird slammed into the window. You were thinking of old lovers. One of them was rummaging
through an old toolbox, the other was pouring tea. For a moment, you pondered the possibility tha
t this was the afterlife. Then you sneezed. One of the detectives grinned. He told you that you just n
eeded to sign a simple contract, pulled a cat out of his coat pocket and handed it to you along with a
pen. “It’s not legally binding,” he explained. But you weren’t there anymore. You were watching y
our old lover, still rummaging through the toolbox. “Aha! I found it!” she said and handed you a sh
abby blue scarf, stale smelling and full of holes. “If anything happens” she said solemnly, “use this.”
My Dead Grandfather Standing in the Dining Room
After the cancer took his leg, and
the chemo took his hair, and
after he turned into a bouquet of bones
wrapped up in crepe paper skin,
Death finally got around to killing him,
and then one day,
as I was walking out of the kitchen,
there he was,
waving and smiling,
like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Shimmy Boyle is the author of a full-length book of poems, Recipe For A Mountain. He has also been published in the poetry journals BlazeVox, Blood Orange, and Blood Lotus.
A Birdhouse
When they looked inside your guts they found salt crystals the size of apples. They told you angels
had been sleeping there. The beds were freshly made and still warm. They asked if you had any en
emies, people who might have a grudge against you, might want to hurt you. Caught off guard, you s
tarted quoting Tolstoy. Their eyebrows shot up like bottlerockets, foreheads like week old newspap
ers, wrinkled. You cleared your throat, embarrassed, and said “No...Not that I can think of.” Outsi
de, a bird slammed into the window. You were thinking of old lovers. One of them was rummaging
through an old toolbox, the other was pouring tea. For a moment, you pondered the possibility tha
t this was the afterlife. Then you sneezed. One of the detectives grinned. He told you that you just n
eeded to sign a simple contract, pulled a cat out of his coat pocket and handed it to you along with a
pen. “It’s not legally binding,” he explained. But you weren’t there anymore. You were watching y
our old lover, still rummaging through the toolbox. “Aha! I found it!” she said and handed you a sh
abby blue scarf, stale smelling and full of holes. “If anything happens” she said solemnly, “use this.”
My Dead Grandfather Standing in the Dining Room
After the cancer took his leg, and
the chemo took his hair, and
after he turned into a bouquet of bones
wrapped up in crepe paper skin,
Death finally got around to killing him,
and then one day,
as I was walking out of the kitchen,
there he was,
waving and smiling,
like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Shimmy Boyle is the author of a full-length book of poems, Recipe For A Mountain. He has also been published in the poetry journals BlazeVox, Blood Orange, and Blood Lotus.