a Sliver of Silver for Every Eye Sold
In Gethsemane corners
where olive trees
cower in clusters
of frayed nerve endings
and shade is seldom offered
the day grows traitor cold.
the sun wounds indiscriminately
Boy pins Goliath beetle
to ground old enough to know better
channels light through monocle
stolen from his sleeping grandfather
raises digitus impudicus to embalmed sky
(from left hand, right holds stolen monocle)
a paltry, empty gesture
dull flash of i.q.
proof of self –
the rain is a leaving song not an aberration
Some union scale trumpeter ushered in
a new light brigade charging
another herd crossing fault lines
looking for a leader
but dawn was bruised
still tender in recovery
and the brigade blew a fuse
as the trumpeter blew a grace note
the sound suggested a paper rectum,
solitary parchment tiger, a weak heart.
this agony is a garden I shall name after you
Father, my sweat is turning to blood, see?
each drop sounds like an executioner’s approaching footstep
one graceless note in a hastened threnody
a choir of fallen angels
lyre hipped and out of joint
mother, it’s alright now
this sudden darkness does not lie
and in this alone I find comfort
for this is no dream that precludes conclusion
my flesh is tearing from bone,
soon I’ll be weightless again.
--William Crawford's first book, Fire in the Marrow, was just released by Neopoiesis Press. For more information please visit: http://www.neopoiesispress.