William Fargason

June 10, 2020

“Ode to the Mattress on the Side of the Interstate” by William FargasonPosted by

William Fargason

ODE TO THE MATTRESS ON THE SIDE OF THE INTERSTATE

Broken and waving, I catch you barely
out of the corner of my passing window,
sitting there under the overpass, fallen out
of a truck like common trash. Your broken
back arched over the guardrail, your open cavity
torn at the side like Christ, like a woman’s

shawl unpinned, blowing in the hot air.
How many secret nights are you spilling
out? Whose nights are they now? I’m tired
as hell from another night where I wake up
sweating, but I have to keep driving past
you in the edge of the waist-high grass,

the overgrown kudzu all but forgotten.
You can no longer provide a safe night
to anyone, you are nothing anyone craves.
I want to pick you up, strap you to the roof
and keep driving, I could find another bed,
a bigger bed, for you to rest on, we could sleep

so long we forget what day it is. I can,
I could try to find us both a home—away
from the cold wind of passing cars, any home
warm and sweet—but am I too many miles away
from you now, too far to turn back? Would I even
remember where you are, which mile marker?

—from Rattle #67, Spring 2020

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William Fargason: “I was taking a trip up to Nashville to see my wife run a half marathon, and I saw this mattress all alone on the side of one of the interstate interchanges. I don’t remember anything about that nine-hour drive other than that mattress, but I knew that by seeing it, a poem had been given to me. Sometimes, in the writing of poems, you don’t get a say in the matter. The next morning, the whole family left for the marathon but forgot to wake me up and take me with them, so I awoke to an empty house, and I wrote this poem.” (web)

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March 27, 2017

“Upon Receiving My Inheritance” by William FargasonPosted by

William Fargason

UPON RECEIVING MY INHERITANCE

I said Thank You father for giving me
this disease that will one day bind my bones
together at each joint Thank You genetics
for passing this down to me and not my sister 
perfectly healthy Thank You for choosing 
me Thank You bones some days I can’t sit up 
without crying some days I can’t sit up at all 
Thank You painkillers for your blessed strength 
when I have none help me not feel Thank 
You doctors and doctors and doctors and every 
room I waited in for you I still wait now Thank You 
mother for your company every room is less 
empty because of you Thank You father for all 
the years you had this disease undiagnosed blamed it 
on lifting lumber or the years of contact sports 
father you must have felt the same pain but didn’t 
have the words for it yet didn’t know how to 
voice pain except with your hands except to ask 
more of me at the table scribbling my homework 
with a dull pencil Thank You father my heart 
has a tattoo of a heart with barbed wire wrapped 
around it Thank You body I left myself came back 
and realized I was still there all along Thank You 
mirror the body is always more reliable 
than the mind Thank You hands I can still form 
into fists underneath the sheets Thank You 
doctors for telling me that if my bones fuse 
I will be like a tree Thank You for that metaphor 
Thank You for the images of Dante’s forest 
infested with harpies Thank You river water 
fir trees open air I have tasted your sweetness 
and turned away Thank You trees for your resistance 
in every thunderstorm that passes outside 
my window I wake up and still see the oak tree 
standing Thank You rain I can only hope 
to add rings beneath the bark I can only 
hope to one day be cut down and counted

—from Rattle #54, Winter 2016
2016 Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

[download audio]

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William Fargason: “I write with what I’m given. And part of what I’m given is a chronic arthritis condition. I tried writing ‘Upon Receiving My Inheritance’ five years ago, but it turned out terribly. I think I had tried to write it too soon, had rushed it, and the pain hadn’t actualized yet. So it took me those five years to get it right, or right enough.” (website)

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March 22, 2016

“Images of Kurt Cobain’s Shotgun Released” by William FargasonPosted by

William Fargason

IMAGES OF KURT COBAIN’S SHOTGUN RELEASED

The rust that covered the chamber
was the first thing I noticed,
the chamber open as an empty tomb,

as someone who could just walk away,
a shadow at midday, hammer pulled back.
April, almost twenty-two years ago:

the last time the gun held a bullet you held
the gun like the door that it was. Some nights
before I got blackout drunk I would hide

the hollow-point bullets to the Colt .357
my father gave me for graduation,
its silver smile. I did not want the gun

so easy, so ready. The engraving
on both sides of your shotgun, so delicate
it could’ve been carved with the end

of a snapped guitar string: a duck,
wings beating against the water, trying
to takeoff. A pheasant in the grass

at full stride. Both animals forever
fleeing, like a song stuck on repeat
that keeps starting over again.

—Poets Respond
March 22, 2016

[download audio]

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William Fargason: “This poem, as the title suggests, is about the first time (on March 18, 2016) the Seattle Police Department released pictures of the shotgun Kurt Cobain used to kill himself. This piece of the story had always been missing, had always been left up to the imagination, until now. The images were too haunting to look away from. As a longtime fan of Nirvana, I wrote this elegy. ” (website)

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