‘Stupid Pupil’ photo ~Heather Lenz
The grass glistens religiously,
a replica of your reflection in the window
where the music whispered
a departure from your lips.
Even now, I keep the wind diluted
in this cup, and recognize the taste of bread
as a smell sifting from the Creek Cafe.
The weight of this rush amuses me.
I organize answers, and waste a box
of memories on your touch.
Mother, I have come home from the war
temporarily. Accepting my losses like a good soldier,
picking the scabs from my wounds.
In the field among smoke I murdered
many men for you. The first to go was your
father. I put rose petals in his mouth to cover
the stench of whiskey, then bound his hands with
our tears and poverty.
I cut off the blood circulation to his manhood,
and watched it turn as black as your childhood.
Then I laughed and smoked a cigarette, told God
I could never be like Jesus.
When I go back, I shall have Shakespeare and
Rossetti by my side. They are ancient heroes
and trust no one.
this poem first appeared in Dance to Death and Carcinogenic Poetry
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