After his particularly dry death,
a boy now haunts our grandfather clock.
In the aftermathematics of his life, I subject him to a stare
while clouds and jejune attempts at poetry roll sickly over my tongue.
And she prepares to leave.
My ribs are claws.
Dig, howl.
I ground and swipe at the
sleep, sleet, smoke in my eyes.
And I know she hates poetry so I lock it down
and let the words bite and pummel my lungs and heart instead.
The roof is sharpened into a triangle point. The driveway writhes and
slides into the open folds of the street
like a slap in the face.
When I say goodbye, I sound like a half-cocked poet, ammoless and childish.
I chew empathy like tobacco
and hope the dark spitmarks on the hot pavement will form words she’ll remember.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
I really like this line, "his particularly dry death". It has a sadness that eludes definition. This person, now haunting the grandfather clock, was of significance not because of himself, or his death, but the absence of moisture at his passing.
This might have been as a dry wine, with it's subtle bite, or a parched state, airless and still. In any case, this opening line sets the stage for this piece, leaving the reader under a pall from which escape is neither sought nor desirable. But I do go on.
While this piece appears, from the title, to be biographical, it is clearly more complex. Rather than addressing the trip itself, you've chosen to provide glimpses from which the reader might reconstruct the scene. In this, you engage the reader and render a painting using broad strokes. Nicely done.
Adding your comment:
