Category: Brian Komei Dempster

by Brian Komei Dempster

Some days

we are

bombed harbors,

then silence.

Other days

I speak, my voice

a snake, cursive

in deserts. A father

and son. Two

countries. Flags whipping

in wind. I know the words

I need

*

to whisper. Words

keeping us

apart. My shirt twisted

in his fist, he tugs

at me. Back turned, I shake him

off. My torn

sleeve, a white cloth

he holds up. Shots fire

from my mouth. Stop. Tell me

what you want—

words in our own war story

he can’t

*

answer. My son

seized. Ancestors

trapped. Grandmother walks

on boards, carries

my baby mother over mud and horse shit

of Tanforan. Wraps her

with blankets in Topaz—their sand

prison. Images

sizzle in his eyes. Light forking

the sky, Mother

blinks. Like my son, she

doesn’t know

*

the words. Bedtime

stories, a nightly

clash, my hands guiding

his head, forcing him

back to the page. Rain

on tin, hum of songs, her father

missing. Empty deserts. Shudder

of flags. The mouth and its silent

dust. Between quiet

and the noise, I reach

the edge. Almost

surrender.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

after Bob Hicok

It shot out of Mr. Foster’s mouth, I flinched while he took aim

at fucking kamikaze crows

who dove from the sky, landed in rows of his prized tomatoes, bore

into red and yellow flesh. It rode

the air, clipped me, an arrow dipped in blood from beaks, sharp

and fast as gold beads

from his cocked rifle. Mixed with Get out, slurred

by Budweiser chugs from cans

our neighbor Mr. F crumpled with his hands, flattened

with his boot soles, it bubbled

in beer foam, softened by the paper bag of heirlooms

Mr. F brought to our front

door. The best ones . . . I picked them for you he told

my mother. His gift appeasing

the boundary between continents, our backyards, like the free advice

he offered my father as I stood

behind fence slats, listening: Place old tires deep in soil

for ripe tomatoes. Scatter seeds

for crows. It was his gaze shifting sudden to a bird

overhead, his liquored breath

and insistence at how sneaky we were, and Why did you marry one?

he asked my father, You better watch

out. His raided garden of fallen globes. A failed crop. My mother Renko

and father Stuart growing me—their heirloom—

too many shades of us for him, the enemy in me, her almond eyes

and olive skin, crows lifting

off, Mr. F’s drunken misses bringing him to his knees, his downed

plane a half-century

ago, his claps and my gasps when they landed

backwards, black bellies

up. It cut through my father’s nervous smile, Hey buddy,

just don’t say it . . .

Mr. F’s reply I won’t say it around your wife . . . I backed

away from his bruised

harvest, furrowed trenches speckled with gunpowder, birds

flapping wings

in dirt, Mr. F’s barrel tarnished like his burning

plane, sinking into the ocean

where he was stranded, shrapnel from his war embedded

in parts of me.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

Blue flame

in the eye’s corner,

stove on

high, we brace

for his flint

and spark, our dark

surprise, his smile

jolts, head

unleashed, little body

arched, straining

in the high

chair, we stand

to face

anything, she steadies

his tray, eggs bubble

in the pot, I lunge

for his spoon, his purple

elephant, water boils

over sides, we look

to each other, sense

the sizzle, his bowl

clattering, a reverse

crater, we shake off

faults, shells

crack, window

shut, we smell

the heat, hardened

yolks, his brain’s singed

gray, the scorched

black dome,

we are all

hollowed out.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

An invisible cage—

we feel him

locked. His quiet

bangs against

us. He taps

our hands—right

yes, left no. Drops

the ring

of keys

at our feet, Car ride now.

His trail shadowed—

we follow clues. Thoughts

shining

through him. Coins.

Spoons. Falling,

clanging. We pick them

up. His heart

a small jar

of lost things. A silver

window. Light trapped,

he touches sun

on glass. Closes

and opens

a thousand

doors.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

If I am not perfect, everything falls apart. I steady

my epileptic son, pull the handle

of the front door. Stuck. Nowhere to go. Last night

I held Grace. Entered her. Are you ready for another child?

she asked. It could help us. Winter rain arrived, the night

damp and cold. We slept together for the first time

this week. Would the new child be normal? Protect or resent

Brendan? Marriage is our son, marriage is shutting him out.

Turning my back, I kneel down, free the mat under the door. I am

trying to get us somewhere. It slants open, a sliver

of light. My pulse quickens—where did

Brendan go? A crash behind me. His screams. I run

to find him—on the ground, his head bleeding. What

are you doing? I yell at him, at myself. Calm down

Grace says, It’s not his fault. We are closed in. She holds

him tight. I reach a threshold, pull him back

to me. Could I have been there? She touches

my wrist. Can Grace and I get back

to us? I sleep alone, in the room next to his. Listening.

The strum of blinds. He’ll stand up. Sway on his bed. I’ll rush

in. Rain sweeps leaves from gutters. More nights

apart. Grace’s warmth beyond reach. Her words to me

when he stopped crying, I’m close to wanting

another. My face against her hair, its apple scent,

my words shutting her out. Not quite yet. I am trying

to stay open.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

I am the baby

erased

from every war

story. The wish

empty in Father’s

hands. Our cord torn

by razor

wire, skies of violet

plasma. I sense

boredom

in mosquitoes, the itch

beneath skin. Fall asleep

to the rake

of Topaz

wind, desert willows

bending over

the stone tablet

of earth. Nighttime

my body curled—

slashed by

the quarter

moon. Waves of heat

and waiting. My lips

on a bottle’s nib,

sand in

the face, Mother

stooped over

stairs, always

rocking me.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

Angel, Lion,

Bird. Cluster

seizures. He splashes,

barks

in baths, screams

near edges

of pools. Loves

the school bus. Hates

Grace cutting

his fingernails. Loves

and hates most

things. On some

spectrum. Shrieking angel, palsied

lion, intractable bird. Falls

in cracks between labels. My son. Nine years

old. Ma, hai, duh his own

language. Atonic drops. Intermittent.

He chases robins, flings

our clothes. Against chairs

pounds tennis

balls. Claws tabletops

for dishes, tosses

spoons, thumps his feet

to funk

beats, dunks

orange ball, body checks

the plastic hoop. Focal motor

misfires. Disco bird. Point guard

lion. Wrecking

angel. We clap

for simple

things. Guide him back

when he misses

the toilet, piss staining

his pants. Sit too

close, he moves

away. Sit far away,

he moves close. His sounds

fly by,

he lets out

a sad roar through grinding

teeth. Staring spells. Clonic shaking.

Night through skylights, our peaceful

time. Grace and I

on opposite couches. Flipping

channels. Backs

stiff. Pulsing

temples. Sleeping

through Mad

Men. True Blood.

Waking

to melted

coffee ice cream.

It’s not

that simple. To love

him so much. To hate

just some of it.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

At his birth, I held my son against stars,

charted the climb, his flag among stars.

A jagged pulse shook our space—

his mind, a blizzard of stars.

I keep it quiet, how he sees earth

crooked, his words, buried stars.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

We knocked Jake Brown

to the ground

in eighth grade, kept him there

with words, Get up, retard. A man

is born strong. I dare

you. A boy is meant to stand up.

But Jake wouldn’t. My son Brendan

can’t. Day after day. It hurts to see him

stuck. The report branded

him retarded, abnormal, impaired,

delayed. Waves of words. In water

I make him

new. Rub spasms

from his back. Come on, Brendan.

Help me. Flat on his belly, he hugs

the shower’s tiled ground. Please, son. Tries to pull

himself up. Slips. Ripples

the white curtain. He’s

safe. No blood

this time. Just clear streams

pearling. I keep

fit. Lift weights so I can lift

him. Kneeling, I raise him slow. Why can’t you

do this on your own? Soap-slick bird,

my six-year-old boy slips

through my hands. Can you

make things easier

just this once? I hold

tighter, won’t let

him slip

again. Jake’s eyes crossed behind bifocals,

he’d fumbled

my pinpoint pass, tripped

at the rim. My boy stays smaller

than other boys. Still it hurts

to lower myself

to him. I need

more strength. Old words foam inside

me, held back. Are you

an idiot? My son looks

away, water streaks

his face, washes

away tears, his mouth

bitter with Dove suds, words

that never roll off

his tongue. Sissy. Jake lost us

the game. You play

like a girl. Behind the veil

our shadows. In steam I tell myself

words will dissolve, droplets

soothing my mouth, running down my chest

onto Brendan’s back.

Four years ago, I told the doctor,

my voice measured, Be careful

with those words. The shower stream grows

cold, I am naked

and shivering. In the drain’s dark well

our echoes. I want to believe

in him. It was just

a report. Jake’s bifocals cracked,

he pissed

his Toughskins. Moron. More than

a word. Sprawled like Jake

on pavement, my son spreads out

his arms, little wings

spanning the damp

expanse. My feet sank

into wet grass. Jake ran from us,

sandy hair whipping

his freckles. Sorry, Daddy

didn’t mean it.

Because he’s my boy,

it’s my fault. I need new

words. Waking bird. Fierce

starling. My hands pat him dry, smooth

his hair. It shines

like feathers. One skinny leg

kicks out.

His hands search

the wall,

push me away

to lift off alone,

stand up to me

just this once.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

by Brian Komei Dempster

By day. By night. In handcuffs. Through mind-scramble. Brain-

surged. Shock of force, body taut. Alerted. Taken.

Outside. Inside. Anytime. Any place. No words to explain. My

infant mother, 1942. My young son now. The rug,

his twisted body, his world inside. And what it does. Red flare

or white lightning. Fried impulse or smoldering

heat. A searing of gray or glitter of stars veiled by fog. Her

fragments. Yellow orb, the porch light. Shimmer

against her face. The cradle, her mother’s arms. A blanket’s false

cover. Itch of wool, hives on skin. Things

just happen. By bus. By train. In war. Electric storms. A horse

stable. Desert. Sand swirl and mind gust. Thought

sparks. Word cloudings. Mountains spike against white. A guard’s

boot. Trodden syllable. A thorned cage. Wing

pierced. Baby hawk in wire. My barbed string of words. To capture

him. Capture her. If he never speaks? I carry him. If

she cries for her father? Grandmother carries her. Some place. My mother

carries what is unremembered. Begins to know

when I ask. I don’t speak. Of things I can’t know. Of despair about

my son. We never know. Where we are going. Where

love will end us.

from SeizeFind more by Brian Komei Dempster at the library

Copyright © 2020 Brian Komei Dempster
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.