[05/11/2026]

[POETRY]

It Came to Tears

Three Poems by Mark DeCarteret

The Year We Went Without Power

For over 24 hours the storm remastered the sand. And worried the water. Tried out new motor-sounds. Ground stars and foghorns. The waves arriving as far as Avenue “D.” Where the leasers found straw mats. And drawings of sea monsters. Mounds of sales awards and lasers. Inside their dining rooms. Tomorrow, the elderly will read and digest. Log the goings-on of the teenagers. Who dread having anything asked of them. O, what those youngsters would do for these kinds of disasters, safety nets! Window after window, hogging the dawn light. Showing off the downed wires. A kid gull not given to soaring. This rose and custard-yellow tint as involved as any lover. Underneath it all, the cancelled meetings of lace makers and believers, continue to stream. Even solo, we’re being grafted on, mating. Tamed by each near-miss we’re relearning to like more or less. Earlier, I woke to the shaming of the marsh hawks. The even harsher shaming of some unnamed insomniac. And then drank crates of slimming drinks. Ate miles of dog treats. Afterwards, creating a new form of currency, not working. The stairs, still listless with rain, are now lit with fresh sun. I’ll recall walking up them. My wrists mystified. My ankles thankless. In awe of the strewn leaves, the wetness. All my ill-at-ease, off-season disordering, waning skills.

The Year I Went Without Riding in a Limo with Pinsky

I tagged along with Dante. For the good part of a year. Even though the real feel was well over a hundred. And the sun was right there where we’d left it. Nailed to a casket lid. In the care of an intern, we hired for their skill of liking their skills more than anyone else in the history of liking their skills. And though I couldn’t do stairs anymore. Couldn’t roast a decent chicken. Turning it so slowly over a fire. It came to tears. I still had a ton of fun finishing his lines. Lifting all those tell-alls of his. By getting under them with my legs. At my lowest, praying to angels for hair gel. And demons for tans you’d spray on. Acting, when I could manage it, as if we weren’t that senile. That the night hadn’t kept making gains on our days. And had us so aged around the eyes. That the daggers we threw at our enemies. Were not worth the rubber sheaths. We had buried our vengefulness. So instead, we took down our tents. And folded them into the shortest of histories. Then listened for the gate. To come to terms with the rust. And for the stream to meet up. With that part of our history. We’d left to rot in the ditch it fell into. Perpetually asking ourselves. Where’s the art in it? Where’s the art?

The Year I Went Without Titling My Poems

I was tamed by everything. I was given to eat. And driven mad by everything. I was given to drink. And what freed me up. I’d become so afraid. Become so very afraid. This was after I tried. This was after I fell. This was after I was left off the guest list. Oh well. Not invited to sit. Or have visitors. I lied about having a bed that I laid. Or a body that I doubled. Still. What doesn’t last doesn’t matter. Still. What doesn’t last is made up for in dreams. Amounts to little but spit. Or a tip of the hat. For backs are only for breaking. Aching where a chair aches. And to think this might be. The last time I’m able. To lose my shit at the table. Life is like that, I guess. This love of a simile. I’m a mess. I’m a mess. I fast at the same time I feast. And die at the same time I diet. Oh, I’ve run out of tissues. And my head has staffing issues. Though they tell me that content. Was always meant as a formality. Or this ritual we’ve long been led. To believe was a go. Woe is us. Woe is woe. Me, I’ve lost any use for the soul. The many hours of ours it has stolen. One word lending itself to another. Then ending. Why even bother. The world owes us nothing. So, you must limit your time there. And smile, buster, smile.

Prose poems from MARK DECARTERER’S The Year of Going Without have been taken by The American Poetry Review, BlazeVOX (which also published the first chapter of his novel Off Season…), Hole in the Head (which chose him as a finalist for Charles Simic Poetry Prize…), Map Literary, New American Writing, On the Seawall, Touchstone (which selected him the winner of Charles Simic Poetry Contest…) and Nixes Mate (which published his last two books of poetry—For Lack of a Calling and lesser case…).