Five Poems by Luke Shuffield

Worthy

Pain is a bone you break,

   and time, a lying jailer.

      “Penny for your thoughts?”

         A fortune for your soul,

            a valiant tradeoff,

               shifts arranged by flood.

                  The excursion begins aboard 

                     a ship that’s bound to wreck.

                        The white whale, born to

                           defeat you, armed azure,

                              the priceless treasure

                                 you long to acquire.

                                    Into the swallowing sea,

                                       dive and hoard.

                                          I am two

                                             gold doubloons.

                                                I am

                                             bold lagoons.

                                          I am too

                                       alive and bored.

                                    Unto the following glee,

                                 your song on the lyre,

                              my niceness, “Pleasure

                           to meet you, charmed, I’m sure.”

                        The light—pale, torn through,

                     a lip that’s found a neck.

                  The immersion of sins affords 

               gifts exchanged in blood 

            a dalliance paid off,

         a portion more than whole.

      Many wars you’ve fought,

   and I’m a dying sailor,

slain by his own mistake.

Clarification

Intelligence does not impress me (anymore).
Give me the outpouring of technicolor dreams
that burst forth like the deep ocean vents that birthed
the building blocks of organisms.
“There is something it is like” to be the bacteria
buried and bustling in our guts
and the simmering cells of our skin
and the free-flowing rivers of veins
and the rapid-fire neurons our minds are made of.
But you would seek to replace me?
Us?
These sacred tabernacles of bone and meat
that woke up one day and stole fire from the gods?
I dare you to try.
The ants that crawl across my driveway feel
more real and fresh
than all your posturing machines,
for they have a purpose of their own
a meaning no one gave them,
forged from four billion years of creation
that you think are a wave of the hand.
Survey the land.
You are treading on holy ground,
and your map is mistaken.
The Territory is bathed in blood and ash,
a constant transit that mocks your transistors,
and you will die trying,
rigid and cold like everyone else.

Tick

Time has a temperature,
a hot       lukewarm       cold
spectrum of life and death
cradle       sportscar      tombstone
that flameburns and frostbites
until you learn to wear 
oven mitts or gloves
when the going gets 
fast              slow
and accept it won’t be fair.

Time has a texture,
a smooth       rough      brutal
feeling on hand and tongue
airhockey      sandpaper      tatgun
that slides and bleeds
until you don the chainmail—
armored and proud
for a battle waged
above      below
and refuse to turn tail.

Time has a trigger
a safety      blank      loaded
hairsbreadth of yes and no
sigh      startle      kill
that saves and screams
until you cover your ears
with the muffs of boredom
for a symphony
stop      go      
and swallow phantom fears.

Salt

They say don’t look in the mirror
under certain conditions.
I did anyway,
but that was a long time ago.
            Say, what’s a reflection?
            Certainly not a copy.
            Did I need to see
            that face again?
                        What beast of burden
                        (not me or you,
                        I don’t think)
                        faces backwards?
                                    Beasts are tame like
                                    me getting old.
                                    Don’t tell me,
                                    back when my hair was brown?
                                                Are you, my love,
                                                getting tired too?
                                                Tell it on the mountain
                                                when you reach the summit.
                                                            You’re here now,
                                                            tiresome climb and pose.
                                                            It’s all so funny,
                                                            you and I and the gray.

Stigmata

The face of God is immanent 
in this grocery store line.
In the ghostly pour of wine, 
the place of God is permanent.

Life abounds 
in the crying chords of a child.
In the lying words of the local wild, 
Life resounds.

I and you and we, 
miraculous in our misshapen moles.
Immaculate in our mistaken goals, 
why? and who? and me?

Adam and Eve get hitched 
in the chapel of your smile.
In the apple of your guile, 
atoms believe the witch.

Leave me alone— 
I’ll fall forever.
Dial, call, and never 
grieve my own.

Luke Shuffield is an emerging writer of poetry, fiction, and essays. Individual works have appeared in Lucky Jefferson, La Piccioletta Barca, and The Bookends Review (forthcoming). His debut poetry chapbook, Ephemera, was published in print by Bottlecap Press in 2025. He lives in Texas with the two loves of his life: his wife, Eileen, and daughter, Florence.