Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Poem: Firewalk


The picture ends with our
protagonist crying into his popcorn.
He does not wipe his
tears comes from a long line of
weepers and there is
pride to be considered.

He knows that others long for
a day when the sorrow
lessens and does not want to
think himself a special case she
was fifty-six and
cancer is all too common

But dermastrata dulls the
senses, cleans out the memory box.
We are ruthless children we
yearn to rip the bandage,
take a pumice to the scab,
jagged fingerlings of red,
rainfall on windows the fresh
burn of pain we call grace.
The descendants cast her
ashes over Waikiki, take the
leis from their necks and
toss them in the water

Enter the ukulele,
a man sings in keening,
vowelish Hawaiian over the credits.

I pull up Carla and type
good mom film she’s already
seen it twice.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo

Photo by MJV

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