Luke Johnson
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Luke Johnson’s poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Frontier, Cortland Review, Nimrod and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall of 2023 from Texas Review Press. Website: lukethepoet.com Twitter: @Lukesrant
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On the 1st anniversary of my father's death, I
sit with my uncle in the half-dark watching
I Love Lucy
and laugh at how
my uncle sucks a cigarillo slow enough
the smoke ringlets
his nostrils
and rises
so the fan which slices them
is suddenly holy
and the flannel coat clutched with father’s sweat holy
and the boots
he wore holy
and the abalone ashtray holy
and the hog he shot from fifty yards
and hung on the far wall holy
the warbling lyrics
of night herons holy
I press the smoke slow in my palm and pant
quietly holy
cod on the stovetop: sizzling:
ii.
cod on the stovetop: cold
and my uncle out with a bottle of boons
in his lap
and an old mutt licking the wound
on his heel.
I am tempted by the oven flame, the gas
and all its hissing,
how a wolf spider huffs
when caught in a snare
and will eat itself alive. I’ve swallowed the weather
and wear black to mimic sleeted streets
the spray from passing tires,
but sometimes, warm,
on a day in August,
when the wind
has fucked the white acacia
and wild onions finger
the fields, I
am asked again if what’s in me is holy
if a crater is holy
if the weather shift holy.
And the song
of my mouth
is unmoored.
I Love Lucy
and laugh at how
my uncle sucks a cigarillo slow enough
the smoke ringlets
his nostrils
and rises
so the fan which slices them
is suddenly holy
and the flannel coat clutched with father’s sweat holy
and the boots
he wore holy
and the abalone ashtray holy
and the hog he shot from fifty yards
and hung on the far wall holy
the warbling lyrics
of night herons holy
I press the smoke slow in my palm and pant
quietly holy
cod on the stovetop: sizzling:
ii.
cod on the stovetop: cold
and my uncle out with a bottle of boons
in his lap
and an old mutt licking the wound
on his heel.
I am tempted by the oven flame, the gas
and all its hissing,
how a wolf spider huffs
when caught in a snare
and will eat itself alive. I’ve swallowed the weather
and wear black to mimic sleeted streets
the spray from passing tires,
but sometimes, warm,
on a day in August,
when the wind
has fucked the white acacia
and wild onions finger
the fields, I
am asked again if what’s in me is holy
if a crater is holy
if the weather shift holy.
And the song
of my mouth
is unmoored.
Commentary
Luke on “On the 1st anniversary of my father's death, I”:
Stay with me here: Recently I re-watched the emotionally brilliant movie Monster’s Ball with Billy Bob Thornton and Halle Berry. In it, there is the iconic line from Berry: “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” And whew, this time that line stuck in my craw. It pierced me in such a truthful place, I felt the tectonics of my heart and body move. You see, for 39 of my 40 years I was bound by a daddy-wound so deep, it affected every area of my life: my family, my wife, my kids, my job, my relationship to the world, myself. It was a black vacuum, a whirlpool, by which the fragments of myself were swallowed. I was barely able to stay above water. I was split. Divided. Like a lion with a limp. Lost. Forgive me. I know I’m being a little emotional. So I’ll land the plane here: my first book Quiver, due out fall of 2023 with Texas Review Press, is a book of exorcism and reckoning. It names the ghosts so the ghosts can move on. It is “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” When my dad lay dying in a hospital bed, a stroke leaving him in a near vegetative state, I finally got to touch his face and hands. Kiss his cheek. Tell him all the things. I got to reconcile in such a holy way my wound was closed. That February day in 2021 exchanged my daddy’s life for my healing. Because of that I now miss him the way a boy should. This isn’t glorifying him. He was a broken, crap dad who didn’t know how to love. But he left me with so many wonderful things: my love of nature, food, my laugh. And so yes, grief is layered. It’s filled with seasons. But it’s good. “On the 1st anniversary of my father’s death” is a poem in my next project. It signifies the sequel to Quiver. This new project is developing into a book of grief and praise, light melancholia. The line movement in this poem is meant to represent grief’s dance. And I’m glad it seems to have worked.
Assistant Editor Dia Roth on “On the 1st anniversary of my father's death, I”:
What first struck me about Luke Johnson’s “On the 1st anniversary of my father’s death, I” was its treatment of time as it relates to the traces of our grief. Johnson deftly slows us down such that “the fan which slices [smoke rings] / is suddenly / holy.” The poem continues to show us such holiness in the father’s objects, all frozen in time—a flannel coat “still clutched with sweat,” worn boots, a prize hog hung on the wall. We’re trapped, with the poem’s speaker, in a room of grief, smoke hanging thick and still in the air.
But as the poem moves into its second section, time accelerates—as so often happens in the wake of loss. The cod that was moments ago sizzling on the stovetop is now cold, the uncle who was blowing smoke rings is asleep in his chair. In the poem’s newfound expanse, where “the wind has fucked the white acacia / and wild onions finger / the fields,” the speaker asks us to reconsider holiness, this time wondering if “what’s in [him] is / holy.”
Stay with me here: Recently I re-watched the emotionally brilliant movie Monster’s Ball with Billy Bob Thornton and Halle Berry. In it, there is the iconic line from Berry: “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” And whew, this time that line stuck in my craw. It pierced me in such a truthful place, I felt the tectonics of my heart and body move. You see, for 39 of my 40 years I was bound by a daddy-wound so deep, it affected every area of my life: my family, my wife, my kids, my job, my relationship to the world, myself. It was a black vacuum, a whirlpool, by which the fragments of myself were swallowed. I was barely able to stay above water. I was split. Divided. Like a lion with a limp. Lost. Forgive me. I know I’m being a little emotional. So I’ll land the plane here: my first book Quiver, due out fall of 2023 with Texas Review Press, is a book of exorcism and reckoning. It names the ghosts so the ghosts can move on. It is “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” When my dad lay dying in a hospital bed, a stroke leaving him in a near vegetative state, I finally got to touch his face and hands. Kiss his cheek. Tell him all the things. I got to reconcile in such a holy way my wound was closed. That February day in 2021 exchanged my daddy’s life for my healing. Because of that I now miss him the way a boy should. This isn’t glorifying him. He was a broken, crap dad who didn’t know how to love. But he left me with so many wonderful things: my love of nature, food, my laugh. And so yes, grief is layered. It’s filled with seasons. But it’s good. “On the 1st anniversary of my father’s death” is a poem in my next project. It signifies the sequel to Quiver. This new project is developing into a book of grief and praise, light melancholia. The line movement in this poem is meant to represent grief’s dance. And I’m glad it seems to have worked.
Assistant Editor Dia Roth on “On the 1st anniversary of my father's death, I”:
What first struck me about Luke Johnson’s “On the 1st anniversary of my father’s death, I” was its treatment of time as it relates to the traces of our grief. Johnson deftly slows us down such that “the fan which slices [smoke rings] / is suddenly / holy.” The poem continues to show us such holiness in the father’s objects, all frozen in time—a flannel coat “still clutched with sweat,” worn boots, a prize hog hung on the wall. We’re trapped, with the poem’s speaker, in a room of grief, smoke hanging thick and still in the air.
But as the poem moves into its second section, time accelerates—as so often happens in the wake of loss. The cod that was moments ago sizzling on the stovetop is now cold, the uncle who was blowing smoke rings is asleep in his chair. In the poem’s newfound expanse, where “the wind has fucked the white acacia / and wild onions finger / the fields,” the speaker asks us to reconsider holiness, this time wondering if “what’s in [him] is / holy.”
