top of page
  • Writer's pictureNeon Mariposa Magazine

Two Poems by David Bankson


The world fogged its lights

and draped gray in our eyes

like shuddering clouds

above a darksome land.

The day

heard the city awaken

and broken

as the land fractured apart from front to back,

the reflection in your eyes

gray catbirds deep in a shadowed forest.

I forgot

you walked these grounds before,

the clouds in your wake,

the shaky yesterdays

hungry for your smile,

a darkness for two,

the growing fog

and you,

before I happened along.

Before that,

candles fizzled

into a sulphur wisp.

After all this time

we’re stumbling here,

where a milk-and-water past


I remember

you glowed like a phantom:

your fog to my smoke,

your eclipse to my night,

a fulcrum for a world of tomorrows.

What’s Left After Suicide

Lakes are nothing but the ground’s failure

to rise above. We measure entry wounds

only once death is rooted into flesh and bone

and hasn’t blown out the back.

Before the mind thinks its last -

a mountain just wide enough

to block what’s left of a family.

My uncle is saying something

about memory and purity from beyond.

I don’t remember what my cousin said

in his sleep about the suicide,

but it was a language

shared by the two of us.

Once life took us away, we forgot it all.

Body may not be the best word to describe a lake,

but it will do in this case.

Doubt may not float on water,

but what else to do with it but drown?

“Animal” doesn’t mean apathetic,

and “Man” doesn’t mean aesthetic.

The knob won’t turn when I want to see inside.

In the fugue they say the sky

is a solid hue of blue.

I’m listening.

I’m listening as if the sky were singing,

not in memory, euphoria, story. More about

the deep lake that reflects the sky,

bracing body against the bitter cold.

David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem contest, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, {isacoustic*}, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five 2 One Magazine, etc.

#issue1 #poetry #DavidBankson

13 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

the cankerous grackles in the parking lots swarming in synchronicity like a biblical plague they don’t scare easy no matter how mean you make your face instead they congregate right in your path and t

across the room from me, my guitar pulses bright colors, throbs dreams I can’t ignore. I think about sleep but the music’s too loud. my guitar sprouts lilies not intended to twine, purrs of birds I’ll

Hope to Thaw If I were frozen in the ground, I’d hope to thaw. I’m left with muddy footprints and sticky fingers- I’m a thief. I stole what I needed to survive: a wet tongue, a Celtic cross against a

bottom of page