Three Poems

J. Marcus Weekley

Scuba Diver’s Revised Suicide Note

Adrienne, I’ve got my shucking knife and thin blue skin.
Let’s navigate the wreck of some titanic war-ship with U.S.S.
written in rusted white on its corroding chest.
Going deep is best at dark,
when angel-fish lead the way down,
clown-fish circle around my hands,
and coral vacillates like brains.

Let’s try again tomorrow:
I’ve ascended to the bottom
but found no pearls to throw to pigs.


for Nakary

How did we get to this feast?
Washed blueberries piled on the counter
waiting for crust to gold in our evening-warm oven.
You slosh milk and sugar over blue berries
while I slice celery watching you pour:
baking tart for guests with prayer requests
bringing fresh bread.

When did we learn to breathe without weight?
Before the doorbell
your hand catches my cheek,
the warmth lingers
until the open door.


New York, September 10

All the girls look like drag-show ants,
looking out from the twentieth floor balcony,
scuttling in fuchsia, ultramarine, and lime pumps
but I don’t see your baseball cap.
I only smell someone’s permanent wafting over like an unpleasant guest
staying around until three laughing about poetry,
and I’m splattered pink when we’re done.

Where are you today, it’s past four
and still no Chinese take-out, no ring,
and I’m unstretched muslin without you.



“I’m 27, just graduated from the University of Southern Mississippi with my Master’s degree in English, and am a visual artist too. I’ve got work at Conspire, Aileron, Fourth River, and bottle rockets. Check out my web-site. Aren’t cats fun?” Marcus can be reached at whynottryitagain[at]

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