Tag: hate

Poem that isn’t about Corn

One summer we grew corn. Cutting into the Virginia clay-sand soil. (My mother always cursed the dirt. Spoiled fertility.) I knifed three rows, ripping and clawing at clods of grass. Thick with sweat, slick skin slipping their grip on the yard tool just as suitable to cleave open his skull at the temple. That thought didn’t occur as the lower lumbar ache spread like a pandemic—flushing my muscles in a race of infection. Maybe somewhere deeper—nestled in a bed of arteries, feeding off fresh bleeding—it was growing. He was breeding me for domesticity. I loved those little pink seeds. I held them in my sticky palm. They looked like rock candy. I imagined sinking my teeth into the tawny flesh of that fruit. The hours, the labor, the loved poured over that fruit—the ache of that love would be tangible. I would sink my teeth into that flesh and sever it for good. but We let it die. Let it rot tall in its stalks. A mockery of that ache.

 

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First draft. Very in the works.

Wake

It would behoove me to remove these lips
to make me mute, to rip from my throat
the chords of my voice that form
the horrifying words that no one wants
to hear, that frame the macabre
visions haggard in my eyes. My craven
mouth will meekly consecrate
our decrepit love, make homage to the rot
we bred. and What of dying love?
The frayed muscles of our hearts–drowning
on the flood of blood in the throat–the choking
of slipped tongues. I said I meant every word
and I do. Something is dying in this room.
This is the smell of a ten year wake. A sermon
churning in my gut, finally purged through
every numb limb–every harbored hate
exposed. One should never
crave a funeral.