John Findura
Something Behind the Mountain
There was something behind the mountain
I did not know what it was—I still do not know what it is
It might be anxiety, my own fear
My ability to take sick from looking at things or hearing things
Me dropping to my knees unable to breathe, again
I saw fire shooting from behind the mountain
And now that might mean the fire is the same as the one in my stomach
Some fire
Some shaking of the ground then a loud noise
I hate loud noises
I would watch the fire behind the mountain from the highway
Near the factory with the large white round building
During my grandfather’s 70th birthday party I saw the fire behind the mountain
I’ve been seeing the fire for so long now
Part of me only exists in the fire itself
Counting Teeth
I count my teeth
and do not recognize the number
I count my pills
and do not recognize their names
This is a phone call I place
to you that you do not pick up
though I know you hear your
phone ringing
like a stadium anthem
I picture you not picking it up
and not speaking into it
the same way I count my teeth:
Slowly, very slowly, absently
waiting for the numbers to change
John Findura is the author of the poetry collection Submerged (Five Oaks Press, 2017). He holds an MFA in Poetry from The New School, an M.Ed in Professional Counseling, and is currently a doctoral candidate in Educational Technology Leadership at New Jersey City University. His poetry and criticism appear in numerous journals including Verse; Fourteen Hills; Copper Nickel; Pleiades; Forklift, Ohio; Sixth Finch; Prelude; and Rain Taxi. A guest blogger for The Best American Poetry, he lives in Northern New Jersey with his wife and daughters.