“These poems jackhammer us with compassion, asking over and over: What does it mean to be a man? The haunted details shift from the scarecrow to the dying fish, from Bowie to Prince, as the voice professes its burning love: …I caught a fish but didn’t / want blood.” —Jan Beatty, author of Jackknife
The poems in Robert Walicki’s eagerly awaited full-length book are at once fearless and gentle. Poem after poem, Walicki drops us smack in the middle of a world so familiar yet so singular, then offers his steady hand as he leads us through the harrowing, magical truth about ourselves.” —Heather McNaugher, author of System of Hideouts
“These poems are a visitation. They blaze, they shine, and leave an afterimage that lingers on and on.” —Richard St. John, author of Each Perfected Name
About the Author: Bob Walicki’s work has appeared in over 50 journals, including Pittsburgh City Paper, Fourth River, Stone Highway Review, and Red River Review. A Pushcart and a Best of The Net nominee, Robert has published two chapbooks: A Room Full of Trees (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014) and The Almost Sound of Snow Falling (Night Ballet Press), which was nominated to the 2016 List of Books for New York City’s Poets House. His first full-length collection, Black Angels, is now available from Pittsburgh’s Six Gallery Press.
Afraid
You were afraid they could tell by looking
you were that kind of man, because of the dead
deer who dove into the front end of your truck
head first. I saw horns, you said, and they asked Why
didn’t you stop for the rack? It was
because you were shaking and your breath left your body
like an apparition. Because you left him there, carried his blood
with you on a dented fender, while plumbers in hard hats joked,
caressed twisted steel as if it was a trophy,
looked at you differently after this,
handed you tools instead of Hey get this,
let you drill holes by yourself in steel roofs,
knees bent, grinder bearing down,
throwing sparks, screaming into air.
Don’t say it, or anything,
you’re only defense is to cut metal
in skips and burning stars, sharp as the wind chill,
afraid to say the wrong thing—
Beautiful, instead of Cool. and Good job.
Like how unwashed denim can save you, stiffen your walk
in the harsh, shrill wind, hard enough to grab a wrench,
something heavy enough to kill a man or tighten a nut.
Everyone here looking tough without trying,
grabbing their crotches to adjust, spit chew,
stare longer than they should at you,
as if they know, and they do.
Real Men
Say it loud in a huff.
Shoot off their mouths and heavy guns,
drag bloody deer, leave their hearts on the ground.
Real men roll their sleeves up,
a handful of chips, edge of a mouth,
dripping with sauce, give you shit.
Real men screw tool boxes down to floors,
put rocks in your hubcaps. lock you in porta johns, tip them over,
Real men call you sissy and bitch,
quick as a fist bump, a punch in the gut at break
Say, I thought you’ve done this before?
Water break, gas leak, jack hammer between your balls
in some grandma’s basement. Say this breaking is necessary—
flaking concrete, ears and shoulder, burning.
So, when the ground opens, grab a shovel
and get down on your knees, keep moving as if this is your religion,
your hands, the cuts and blood,
the men standing above you in hard hats, laughing.
Every man you’ve ever met resembles the father you couldn’t know.
The father, heavy, as the shadows that fall over you,
6 feet of leaning earth, this ditch line, crumbling
into the shape of a body, your body, learning.
Excerpted from Black Angles by Bob Walicki. Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.