"roadrash" poems
“The news told me,” she said, like we were close, “the news said nearsightedness isn’t just genetics, isn’t just luck of the draw.” I’d never been a gambler. My interests were absorbed in my spoon’s inverted picture.
“What I mean, is clarity is in the hands of the person.” Or in the eyes. “You look at things too close when you’re young, and you lose focus forever.”
Her arms crossed over her uniform, a seafoam apron. She looked through her bifocals at her thoughts. Four kids in seven years. Her body was tense and doughy from the push and pull of life.
“Now imagine that,” her roadrash voice rumbled. “If I had just looked at the horizon more I wouldn’t need these **** lenses. My whole life could’ve been different.”
I pushed my empty coffee cup in her direction so she had a better reach, and gave her a half smile. “Yes. Imagine that,” I said.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
~~~
O modern Christ
Your garments Lotto parted
Your cross is slow
devoured by worms
O modern Christ
Your plaster face is cracking
Your feet are scorched
By roadrash burns
O modern Christ
The Texas rangers love you
In the stadium aspire
O modern Christ
Your side's a bullet wound
Your crown is made of razor wire
O modern Christ
Your tears are falling
Turning your nails red with rust
O modern Christ
Your bread has moulded
And your wine has turned to
DUST
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) October 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC