The Glacier
Issue Three
Winter 2024

Fancy That

We were warned to expect awkward clothes
and poisons, and that any number of angels
would ring us up from hell with tales of woe
once the do-somethings won election
by shouting listicles down the gullies
of the mainstream media and feigning 
affection for horses. Not on my block
it’s true, but even above the sizzle
of my jacuzzi I could hear the klaxons 
and their grim advice to inventory 
the hygienic oils and ointments I’ve enjoyed.
I’m a team player and an open book. 
Might I please be loaned the price of a ticket
to Sanary-sur-Mer or some other 
problematic place? I’ve stuffed my ruck
and willed a fiction per request. There can be 
no suffering loftier than mine, as the angel
of boredom has undressed herself 
for me, and cooked a fair soup. Yes, really. 
We all saw the news about how mountains
“wince” and how the nacreous mist up there
deadens all sound, especially laughter. 
Go ahead, don’t believe me. After flowers 
rhetoric was the first thing we surrendered.

Maecenas in Winter

After midnight, the river slurs its words.
I see fewer people, but they emit 
more noise than ever. You’re welcome 

to think what you like of that. I’m not in love
with the color you chose, but I’m holding
my tongue. Remember when you asked me 

to scratch our names on that HVAC unit
because all your smug uptown friends refused
to condemn police presence on campus?

I hope we can agree I did that for you. 
I hope we can agree I tucked your fiery hair
behind your ear, and put my ear to yours

and listened to the liquid rush around
in there as darkness fell. Both sides
want peace. Oh hang on, no they don’t.

Patriarchal

The dude down the block has apparently 
purchased a bugle now. All we held dear
has dried up like a creek in August. And we’re told
kids should be taught to take a joke. 

What are you going to do about it? 
Conduct a traditional ceremony
complete with animals roasted in the earth
and mysterious songs? 

Early adopters use up all the oxygen. 
One summer they forgot to brand the cattle
but no biggie because everyone knew
exactly to whom them cattle belonged.

El último


A sugary arm of marble beckons 
from the floodlit portico. Half-human

half-star. The fashion police have canceled 
most of our postures, but I’ve got a few 

workarounds to eyeball when you have time. 
The saxophone shunned by the orchestra—

c’est moi! I sulk on my stump, munching sardines
and humming a bolero. You’ll leave me much 

as you found me, oblivious to the way
a day or decade can be crimped shut like

a sack of black cherries and carried home 
to shine. I forget what I meant to say next.

Something realistic, I hope, but don’t quote me
on that. Last week at canasta Billy

described the San Casciano dei Bagni bronzes
and for a few minutes death felt abstract. 

Suspended just above the canvas but not 
a major figure in the scene. If a future 

where we relinquished all our power dawned 
on us then, and the familiar sting

was shown to be no less durable than the joy 
we’d plucked from the mouths of those

who came before us, would our betters 
sit still while every last luminous fragment

of finger, toe, and nose was auctioned off
as scrap? I reckon not a few have wondered. 

I could nurse a grudge but I won’t. It’s like
you always said: “Join the club.” Clear night

of many satellites. There’s ours right there.

Joel Brouwer is the author of five books of poems: Exactly What Happened, Centuries, And So, Off Message, and As Long As We’re Here, which is forthcoming from Four Way Books. He teaches at the University of Alabama.

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