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self-sacrifice {cannibalism}

by Richard Paez

He rises,
the old one with the youthful face,
as if from some depth, defying
those who have forgotten

his arms, my reach
longer than ever,
too strong, grasping far;
these fingers, so scarred

implying patterns
from which decent folk recoil.

And downward flow the hopes
we’ve nurtured like children,
running rivulets – sliding
from our greasy, leathered skin;

and downward run the motes
of passion, understanding,
red, red cinders burning wet,
flowing torrents – scalding

such perverse patterns,
such ugly forms of dreams and sin.

He rises,
defying those who were forgotten,
arms reaching far,
so scarred that decent folk recoil;

and we speak – one-voiced,
like children running,
flowing as if from some depth,
gambling with tarot cards:

“I see your thirty silvers,
now where’s my pound of flesh?”


And from my rotten mouth
he plucks the perfect tooth
with which to do the carving.

02/05/2011

Posted on 02/05/2011
Copyright © 2022 Richard Paez

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