Poetry: Selections From Matthew E. Henry (MEH)

being considerate

according to the internet, by the time you read this,
my cats will have consumed the soft tissue of my head, 
starting with the nose and lips they so often sniffed 
as I dozed. don’t blame them. this was my intention—
a final act of love, tiding them over until your arrival. 
the coroner may tell you what I’ll never know—how long 
they held out after devouring the 50 pounds of dry food 
I slit around their empty bowls. as a case of wet food 
would have quickly spoiled, I provided myself as more.
 
their ease of access was my main concern. 
an aversion to water makes it cruel 
to cleave myself in tub. a short rope 
and overturned chair would leave them 
batting at the worst string toy ever. 
I could have cleaned out the garage, 
found a garden hose, but they’re indoor cats 
without a step stool or opposable thumbs.
knowing how much they value the tidiness 
of their tiny paws, a bullet seemed unkind, 
and unsure how long chemicals linger
in uncirculated flesh, an overdose was ruled out. 
I think I made the best choice for everyone. 
I knew you’d understand. 
 
 
 
“Lord, we know what we are but know not / What we may be.”

a bass gasping on shore, it’s clear you’re trying. giving 
your small town, God-fearing, middle-aged white man 
best to decipher the sex or gender or sexuality or 
whatever the hell is that? of the stranger who struck up 
a conversation. asked what brings you into town—
betrayed by tourist clothes bearing our city name
and your ah shucks demeanor. you regret leaving home. 
a hare—leg snared in a wire loop—weighing the cost 
of gnawed freedom.
 
confusion convulses your face in squirrel tail twitches
as you internally question clothing cut and color. 
jerky pheasant glances exploring face shape, hair length, 
and adam’s apple myths. you hope you’re not being obvious, 
offensive. you were raised better than that. you love the sinner—
who is kind and courteous, treats you like a visiting angel— 
but hate the sin you reflexively assume. 
 
when your family enters—wife, son, two young daughters—
your brow and subtle nod silently signal they should not be alarmed. 
but then you wrapped a protective arm around your youngest
seeing how nonplused she is after the introduction. 
the glint in her eyes. the knowing smile. deer nosing 
at her calm, confirming a danger you’ve feared.

she never made the connection

 
  It is true that two wrongs don’t make a right,
as we love to point out to the people we have wronged.
  ~ James Baldwin
 
a crime scene waited in her sixth-floor apartment. 
 
master bedroom a maelstrom of shredded mattress, 
foam forced to forget all it ever hugged. 
her decorative pillow collection—
carefully stacked each morning—
a slaughtered flock, feathers scattered,
leaving nowhere to lay her golden head. 
 
every living room seat smashed to kindling. 
the sofa, chaise lounge, wingback, and ottoman—
frames thin as her pursed lips—matchsticks 
unfit for her ass-less comfort. 
 
a three-course meal warmed in her ill-used oven. 
the vandal-chefs had fully-stocked her pantry, 
over-crowded salt and pepper with spicy, 
pungent seasonings she found 
hard to pronounce. table set—just right—
with a single spoon and bowl. 

an open letter to the man clipping his fingernails in this restaurant
 
nevermind. your wife has returned—
caught you mid-clip, then brushing 
sheared sickles from table to floor. 
 
her collapsing face questioning—
once again—her life choices. 
whether her mother was right. 
 
would she have been better off 
marrying Reynaldo? happier 
with a degree, a career. childless. 
 
never suffering the indignities 
you publicly—more privately—
force her to endure beneath 
 
the weight of your last name, 
the flaking yellow ring, 
your affronted, scolding look
 
as she shakes her head 
into the silence you prefer. 

the things you don’t admit
 
the numbness after someone your ages dies
and you weren’t terribly close. masturbation
out of boredom—to feel something completely
in your control. the thoughts that seal lips 
around gulped bites at the holidays—confessions 
to break grandma’s heart. how often you feign 
the emotions others expect. the volume of visions: 
your body bloating in the tub, neck unnaturally 
angled at the bottom of the stairs days before 
anyone noses a reason to break the door down. 
how often you’ve scribbled the lyrics from Creep 
in love letters and discarded suicide notes.
 
 

 

 

 

Matthew E. Henry (MEH) is an educator, essayist, occasional fiction writer, and author of seven collections of poetry, most recently Promises to Keep (Wayfarer Books, 2026). Editor-in-chief of The Weight Journal, a poetry editor at American Poetry Journal, and nonfiction editor at Porcupine Literary, MEH’s publications include Massachusetts Review, Mom Egg Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Ploughshares, Southern Humanities Review, Terrain, and Worcester Review. MEH earned an MFA yet continued to spend money he didn’t have completing an MA in theology and a PhD in education. He writes about education, race, religion, and burning oppressive systems to the ground at www.MEHPoeting.com.