Wolfgang Carstens: Three Poems

“i don’t write love poems,”

i said,

“and i’ve never been
much of an Anglerfish.”

“what does that even mean?”
my wife asked.

i said,

“when Anglerfish mate,
they melt into each other.

the female absorbs her man,
until his eyes, mouth,
and fins disappear—

and they share
the same bloodstream.”

“i like that,”
my wife says.

“well then,”
i say,

“come here Mama,

and let me
hold you



“if not a mess,”

my wife groaned,

as she picked up the empty Tequila bottles
the empty beer cans
the half-smoked joint,

what do you call it?”

“we have been married
twenty-five years,”

i said,
lighting the joint,

“and that,
my Dear,

is what
i call

a survival



it’s not
the big moments
in life
that terrify us,

but rather
the small,
ordinary ones.

i can stand
in front of 300 people
and read poetry,

my knees shake

i lean in close

kiss you


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