Andre F. Peltier is a Lecturer III in the Department of English language and Literature at Eastern Michigan University. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI with his wife, kids, and pets. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a variety of journals. He also obsesses about comic-books and soccer.
Artwork by Edward Michael Supranowicz
3: Lithium; Li
In the Stockholm Archipelago,
rising just above the waves
of the Baltic Sea,
floats a tiny island.
Look at it under a microscope
if you must.
Hold a magnifying glass
to the globe.
You’ll not find it on maps,
in your Atlas or Gazetteer.
Walking the rocky shores,
you’ll see the steel grey foam
riding in from Tallinn,
Helsinki, Turku.
Hidden for eons in the
pegmatite of Utö,
the first samples of lithium
were finally discovered by
Johan August Arfwedson.
Little did Arfwedson know
he was on the verge of
changing the world.
Its rose-red flame would illuminate
all of creation.
Shining a light on the bipolar truths
we tuck away with our skeletons
and forgotten trauma.
With the transmutation of the alchemists,
the lithium fuels the age of death.
Supersonic raceways bring
supersonic screams,
and the rose-red flame lights the sky.
The flame signifies the truth
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
The manic-depressive afterlife
of Bikini Atoll is forever in its debt,
and the element of Utö
is there to remind us
of tomorrow.
I Pity the Poor Hunchback
Ringing bells & collecting cadavers,
the hunchback has a grand history
in servitude.
Traveling the world,
experiencing exotic lands,
all from the confines of
freak show cage.
“Yes, Master,” says Igor, as he
raises the operating table
to lightning and wind.
“Avoid that deadly melanoma
while you gaze at the face-on-a-stick
& gaze at the
Rock of Origins,”
says Spallu with a melon on his back
& an umbrella in his hand.
Spallu, the Dutiful.
Spallu, the Humble.
When Mama Ocllu rose
from the depths of
Lake Titicaca,
Spallu dried her robes;
when Mama Ocllu followed
the golden scepter & built
grand Cuzco, Spallu dug the dirt
& placed the stones
slowly
one by one.
The city grew from the spear.
When Father Moon begat
the queen of Incan ecstasy,
you were the loyal friend.
You were there in
loving silence.
The Dream of Daffodils
For Suzy Kamber
Emerging from deep autumn mists,
The Blood red woman in her blood red dress:
Half-hidden behind the haze of empty yesterdays,
She looks to tomorrow and wonders,
“In what capacity does the swirl of color
Signify the swirl of my mysterious appetite?”
Phantom clouds obscure her eyes
As turned-out pockets of the vernal equinox hide
How she knows that Wordsworth’s still-sad music
Darkens the attics and backroads of America.
She knows that Wordsworth’s flowers never bloom,
But she holds on. She holds tight the dream of daffodils
Emerging from the autumn mists.
A Blood red woman in a blood red dress.
Like a Cyclone in Late December
Eyes blink back:
pupils, cornea,
plica semilunaris.
Like a cyclone in late
December,
the silver glass knows
the depths of our façade
& the depths of our
self-critique.
Mirror, Mirror,
tell me true,
whose swimming stare,
whose darkened blue
will melt into the acid-floor?
The multifaceted iris,
its unholy design,
swims into space
with timeless liquid
death.
“What are you doing in there?”
they shout from the hall.
“What dungeon-master
locked you in?”
But it’s not a prison,
these ticks on the clock.
The mirror opens a world
of mushroom peace.
Sprouting in the moist recesses,
the fungus takes hold
& guides the dream,
opens the passageways.
Eyes blink back:
pupils, cornea,
plica semilunaris,
like a cyclone in late
December.
The Batman of Petoskey
He stalks the streets
of Northern Michigan
in his cape and cowl.
When the superstitious
cowardly lot creep through
town, he is there.
On patrol, on the lookout
for the good of the
common man,
The Batman of Petoskey,
hero to us all,
is ever-vigilant.
How could a man
so pure be
wrong?
How could a man
of such intentions
become the laughingstock?
Investigating the serious
crimes, he solves the
serious crimes.
On the scene before
police or sheriff,
he always gets his man.
Sinatra Opened Doors
in Vegas
and Dino Made a
Mean Martini
But
When Sammy Davis
Played Detroit
night clubs,
he played
Windsor
country
clubs.
From the Editor:
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Founded in late 2011, In Parentheses prides itself upon analysis of the current condition of intelligence in the minds of these young people, and building a hypothesis for one looming question: what comes after Post-Modernism?
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By In Parentheses in IP Volume 7
32 pages, published 1/15/2022
By In Parentheses in Volume 6
80 pages, published 10/15/2020
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