la petit caporal

he looked more like a China pig 

than an emperor; belly swollen, big flabby

ass, legs like sausages boiled in lager.

also, his teeth were black from chewing

licorice, and he had digestive issues, and

headaches, and nausea, and liver

complications, and his bladder had shrunken

and contained gravel, so peeing was a great 

and demoralizing hardship;

after the Tuileries, after Milan, the Russians,

the Prussians, the pyramids and Waterloo,

to be standing in a frigid water closet

on the island of Saint Helena, penis

in hand, leaning into that last and most

humiliating battle, little drops of urine

falling into the chamber pot

like volleys of grapeshot.

berried versus buried

my grandfather was standing 

in front of the bathroom mirror  

watching himself 

shave the moment 

his heart decided to quit

it happened just after my 3rd birthday

and I remember afterwards

my grandmother showing me  

the small oval-shaped 

dent in the wall 

where his head had hit 

when he collapsed 

and I remember how 

whenever I would visit her house 

I would inspect the dent

running my fingers 

over it feeling the curve

and the silky 1960s

wallpaper imagining

that cheerful old Irish

drunkard slamming his head then 

lying like a sack on the cramped tile

floor slackmouthed eyes filmed

like uncooked egg white

patches of shaving cream on his jowls 

that death could 

come so beastly sudden 

that's what seemed most strange 

I mean, my grandfather 

didn't even have time to wash 

the lather from his cheeks let alone 

say goodbye to anyone

he was just simply 

dead and I remember a week or so

later driving somewhere

in the family station 

wagon when my father mentioned 

my grandfather was to be

buried and that confused me because 

I only knew the word berry

as in the sugary things

you drop in your mouth

I had no idea about 

the other bury where they dig 

a hole in the earth

and drop your 

favorite grandfather 

into it.

Retrospective

yesterday was one of those days

a day where nothing

would help not bach

cezanne not reading about monimos the cynic

nor walking nor doing anything

but gaping at the flowers

in the garden the green

earth had me yesterday the hum

of the fruit fly

the crows the apple tree leaf the rain the trains

yesterday was a bill to pay

for those few rare days with laughter and wings

enough to carry themselves

away yesterday was one

of those ganymede-on-the-down-escalator days

a day you keep reminding yourself

to be patient to wait

but for nothing special for everything’s

a trick of perspective vanity a passing

like a green moldy cloud

yesterday.

M.P. Powers is a Floridian who lives in Berlin, Germany. He is the author of The Initiate (Anxiety Press, Fall, 2023) and Strange Instruments (Outcast Press, ’25). Recent publications include the Columbia Review, Stone Circle Review, miniMag, and others. His artwork & etc. can be found on Twitter and Instagram @mppowers1132