red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince
poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since
her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine
head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine
scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid
the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked
she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear
not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years
he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced ***
any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain
quashed, quelled
concealed and contained
another fickle whine
another fleeting wish
any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind
she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won
no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done
the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young
infantile infantry
ripened from infancy
what a weapon are my sons
what a kindness she's coughed up
you never are who you think you are for very long –
at least, in my experience.
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a bus ticket and a brain