Barton D Smock
Barton D Smock
Sep 1, 2012

nights you’d sleep at the foot of your father’s bed on a mattress you’d pray withstand the needle else it sigh paternally. your fingernails were softened with disease and you’d dream they were pillows. mornings your mother would watch as you’d go to the rim and she’d suck her thumb. mornings also your two brothers would call to your arms to go here or there after which you’d soak each arm as one in dishwater and try to pronounce crayon crayon crown of thorns.

     visible the noonday moon you’d laze by pond and listen for the creak of your teeth pushing forward as if they’d been charged to oust from your speech the word deindividuation and you’d let it happen being so enamored of the tongue you’d press to the bottom of your mouth as if you could make of it a copy.

then orally corrupt you’d move to see a deer

peripherally
a deer

but straight on a horse and so upright you’d jerk and send your sister into the acid of your stomach where drowned what loved you; her love of men and her later love of one man

who’d void sin and gender to widow you with forgiveness.

     I bring with me the weakest part of a flower from a neighborhood we neither one called ours and I blow it now through a wire fence. some bring wilt, some pity. might we trade them for the layup so executed we were shown by the undecorated sport of your austerity
the aftermath of our own penitence.

The wreath, quick, I am dying!
Federico García Lorca

The wreath, quick, I am dying!
Weave it quick now! Sing, and moan, sing!
Now the shadow is darkening my throat,
and January's light returns, a thousand and one times.

Between what needs me, and my needing you,
starry air, and a trembling tree.
A thickness of windflowers lifts
a whole year, with hidden groaning.

Take joy from the fresh landscape of my wound,
break out the reeds, and the delicate streams,
and taste the blood, split, on my thighs of sweetness.

But quick! So that joined together, and one,
time will find us ruined,
with bitten souls, and mouths bruised with love.

.  .  .  A wreath in midair.
Ormond
Ormond
Feb 18

Before new flowers,
Blooming, butterflies hover,
  .  .  .  A wreath in midair.

Make a lovely wreath to see
Timothy
Timothy
Dec 22, 2012

Holly and Ivy
Make a lovely wreath to see
Holly bears the thorns.

~Timothy~

14 December, MMXII
The flowers of the wreath
Julia
Julia
Apr 5

The flowers of the wreath
on the door of the funeral home
are beautiful to no one.

on the heart-altered wreath
Aric Kane
Aric Kane
Jan 11, 2013

sunlight shared on sections of paper,
wells of ink ruin lines
on the heart-altered wreath
of folded hands

In the wreath of dark clouds,
Irah Rahim
Irah Rahim
Oct 18, 2013

In the somber hue dress,
She dances.
In the wreath of dark clouds,
She dreams.
In the dire dreary weather,
She smiles.

Made a wreath today
PeacockBrain
PeacockBrain
Mar 25, 2012

Made a wreath today
Those leaves are going to die out
and be crinkled and crumpled
Hot glued to the wreath
that sits at the back door
Nobody enters.
Those leaves will stay there
until the season changes

9-25-11
Sinking in the tidal wreath.
Sputter Outlaw
Dec 17, 2013

Saccharine Sea Maiden shell.

Nuggety pearl

Sinking in the tidal wreath.

Watching where the beach

Rests up it.

And finds the bay of glee

Bequeathed.

A teardrop for our wreath...
Bundoo
Aug 6, 2010

Watching...suppressed...
Words bring no sweet relief...
Hoping without hope...
A teardrop for our wreath...
Thought formed scars...
Self destruction supplied...
Scorned by a memory...
Ensconced in this lie...

 
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