by Matthew Zangen
This isn't the first poem. Every morning a prayer,
ringing in mugs, mixed them, I swallowed plantations,
amortized bodies under the mall,
Over the paper, Revolution rolled deadly
crimes like time travel, psalms for Someday,
Shame--That wasn't me, Shush
someone else might hear it for me.
Where is my skin This is an echo slow as family.
This is the chalk I wrote disintegration.
This curb is also a history;
the copper burst from brass like a throat here,
and I should have been here.
Here We listen for the work, I fused with separateness,
Here We are burning nuance and murder,
Oh poor I, a pastor now, speaks blood like a ventriloquist
why no one understands him, why he looks like me,
how deep is this underground, how old the root,
why do all my letters spell theft,
how much more can I take?
how could I ever give it back.
Posted on 06/22/2020
Copyright © 2020 Matthew Zangen