(white linen on a luminous morning
makes for an easy target, i suppose.)

your eyes are malignant but quite
cloudy, in contrast to the clean
red blood you could not steal from
my insides.

there is difficulty in killing a
man who has committed no crime, but
it is not quite as trifling as the
attempt to keep the dirt off of your
spilling entrails.

i now rest in my own blood.

dear mother, stop your shouting. the
bishop's come and gone, quite like this
final morning. i cannot keep this moment,
but perhaps with the sweep of my hand, i
can brush the last speck of dirt from my
viscera before i return to the grove of
timber trees, where the gentle drizzle
will cleanse my intestines and the sweat
from my eyelids.

and i'll ride on the tinfoil airplane
once again.

09/24/2004

Author's Note: part III of my a.p. project in which i wrote poems from the perspectives of some the characters in gabriel garcia marquez's chronicles of a death foretold. i actually wrote five poems, but i'm only posting these three.

Posted on 09/24/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lindsay Sanders