Thursday, February 3, 2011

And Do You Take

Yes the question hung like a streamer
of aluminum cans between Never and Tomorrow might
shimmer, to you, maybe, but in my eyes
they are shameless metal shards,
scraping not cutting or slicing or blinding just scraping
the backs of my eyes. If only they were full
of light not hollowed Pepsi Cola. My whole body
would beam like the sun, like smiling, but as it is
I open my mouth and slivers of silver and meaningless
pieces come out. Tin cans rattle behind the white sedan.
Two snap off and stop lifeless in the church lot;
someone is shouting; he is drunk, or disappointed,
or glad. Maybe he was reminded
of an old hard tale, his grandfather’s finding
a white girl in the back field, dirt on her knees,
the rope and the horse hooves and the blurred trees
mixed in with purpling flesh and young screams,
or of his black wife a tall shadow against twilight,
or maybe I am the only one who saw.