}} Whiskey Green Man by John Hennessy |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Whiskey Green Man by John Hennessy

— Rosslyn Chapel to Glasgow, Friday night

That head’s a wicked planter. Stone vines shoot
from every orifice, wreathe his neck and hands,
mouth stuffed with hawthorn leaves. Green, moot,
gushing silence. But he’ll bark it down in iambs,

anything to help me understand: concuss,
concuss. Trip me on stairs, ass over shoulder,
fix seven staples, a lidocaine fuss
across my scalp. I’m already older

than trepan’s laureate, Apollinaire—
still drink up life comme une eau-de-vie,
freak-chute the Zone? Sure, I’ll read his stare
a hundred ways—he comes close to me—

play Baptist, slapstick, maythorn, steno, stitch
my bloody collar to thanksgiving screed,
a lesson to this Glaswegian itch,
a reassessment of want v. need.

Pink slash.   Seven staples.   A livid strand
of puckered skin from dome to neck. Soft touch,
dumb luck.  Mouth shut? Not me. This land
our Móraí crossed in Hunger spooks too much.

Hospital zoot. Nae bother. My bunkmate blocked
shots from a broken bottle, handcuffed tight
both sides—laughing—to laughing cops. Take stock.
Heads up. Pillow’s soaked, but me, I’ll be right.