2 Poems by Matthew Moniz
Thaw
early Spring 2021
It’s springtime, and dead things are everywhere.
On my driveway lies a young vole-thing, a present
left by the backyard stray. A half-coiled
snake was in the gutter one day, on the sidewalk
the next. It might be rubber. I’m not sad
or curious enough to check closer.
Not yet but soon the failed courtship
of plants will sit squirmless on the neighborhood,
assailing senses and blanketing winter’s grime.
Thaw rhymes with raw. I don’t know.
The virus is not yet needled inert in my blood.
Those who walk around without masks
show their full faces, blackhole smiles.
Stasis has not preserved me. Nothing good
has happened for a long stretch.
I haven’t felt poetic in a while.
I worry about worrying.
There is half a worm on the porch,
macerated by a hunter mother’s beak.
In the patio brush I find an unformed kitten.
It’s springtime, and the bugs are back.
I fill my room with poison.
Zydeco on Broken Stage
Luna alley, Ryan Street
The cat who lives beneath the stage
has returned from hunting washedaway
rodents and dulls claws on corrugation,
itching rhythms in tin. No flesh or metal
moves along the street. Amid the ghosts
of wind and water, the neighborhood
thrums hummingly, exhales, expands
its accordion folds, as if knowing music
is still music even when there are no listeners.
early Spring 2021
It’s springtime, and dead things are everywhere.
On my driveway lies a young vole-thing, a present
left by the backyard stray. A half-coiled
snake was in the gutter one day, on the sidewalk
the next. It might be rubber. I’m not sad
or curious enough to check closer.
Not yet but soon the failed courtship
of plants will sit squirmless on the neighborhood,
assailing senses and blanketing winter’s grime.
Thaw rhymes with raw. I don’t know.
The virus is not yet needled inert in my blood.
Those who walk around without masks
show their full faces, blackhole smiles.
Stasis has not preserved me. Nothing good
has happened for a long stretch.
I haven’t felt poetic in a while.
I worry about worrying.
There is half a worm on the porch,
macerated by a hunter mother’s beak.
In the patio brush I find an unformed kitten.
It’s springtime, and the bugs are back.
I fill my room with poison.
Zydeco on Broken Stage
Luna alley, Ryan Street
The cat who lives beneath the stage
has returned from hunting washedaway
rodents and dulls claws on corrugation,
itching rhythms in tin. No flesh or metal
moves along the street. Amid the ghosts
of wind and water, the neighborhood
thrums hummingly, exhales, expands
its accordion folds, as if knowing music
is still music even when there are no listeners.
Matthew Moniz is a PhD student in poetry at the University of Southern Mississippi. Originally from the DC area, he holds an MFA and MA from McNeese State University and a BA from Notre Dame. Among other journals, Matt’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review and Meridian. He has been awarded the SCMLA Poetry Prize and grown in workshops with Tin House and the Community of Writers. He got vaccinated shortly after writing this poem.
