She’s been crushing her eyes like mandarin oranges
Clutched in their muscular lids, tight, Hoarded, kept. And the shadow pricks syringes Drop on skin are bright aftermath. He is dead where the light is glaring. The stitches Gather a Y on his torso. They are orderly serpents on a map’s sea. They are science, reason, Loosened boards over a crawl space of body, Or the rash left by impostures Crude as answers. He is drawn out and ragged as Rasputin, If monks were beardless and moon-white. That makes her the Tsarina, German-Russian Alexandra, fool of faith. Hemophiliac princes, worlds with no poets, No more than ants and their dead queens. But her son on a stainless-steel table seems Cold. Fahrenheit is not all that means And ‘corpse’ is what murderers drag down to basements, Not the ghost that’s pressed to her chest Of a child lost. Under eyelids, a baby. Here, a tall man. Ceilings and roofs keep the sun off These lights. No one else hears the distant wet cough Echoed in the hall. The trash can Works its whistling wheels to the door and waits Like Stalin. Princes and Pushkins To be swept into heaps like evolution’s Great achievements: Marxists, roaches…. There is a horror in each step a child takes. Like hours, they walk on to days, Always away. |
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January 2019
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