Week 3- R.A. Matheson

Posted: April 18, 2011 in R.A. Matheson, Week 03

My Child is Now Rotting in the Ground

Dreams, the shape of pornography
I lose twenty-one grams
I collected my son’s baby teeth as they fell out
calcified memories, speckled in blood.

I slide these little bits of bone around until they start to form images:

Stick figure-shape
tied with thread,
hangs from a noose
brittle twine.

headless, pumping its lover full of semen,
abdomen muscles

spreads wings full and brilliant grey,
eyes stare like buckets of ink,
edges bleed fuzzy
mold grows on gauze.

blooms and fills the head with the sweet smell of copulation,
a steady scent of lilac
grows from a pot of moist pennies as
October rains sputter through the open window.

the tears come.

the truth comes.

the pennies spill, he eats them up,
curdles them in the stomach
shits them out,
spread like a thin coat
plaster over the world.

no one can hear him.

is terror is guilt is divorce is death is divorce is guilt is terror.

My fist,
clenched in the color of red,
crashes to the table

the teeth shatter to the wind.


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