He is the dung of
her dunghill, the
boil on her anxious
elbow, the ashes of
her children, her
cattle’s slit throats,
her crops afired.
Her own open wound.
She plays her piano
like a stevedore Mozart,
like it is a weapon of
mass production,
like the sun rises and sets
on earthquake syncopation,
like her steel fingers drill
through ivory and
into and through earth skin
to a core of thunder and
through, beyond, to a
broken morning, chanted
brokenly, like steel fingers
into innocent soil, like sins
injected in pure veins,
like a visit to hell and
back, like he will eventually
have to hear her.
He starts to put together
the barbed pieces of
her puzzle, knowing
most are missing but
lusting anyway in
bewilderment.
Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, is the author of ten books, including the poetry collections Requiem for David (Silver Birch Press) and Darkness on the Face of the Deep (Kelsay). His memoir in prose poems Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby is forthcoming from Third World Press, and his chapbook The Lost Tribes will be published in January, 2022, by Gray Book Press. His poetry has appeared in America, Burningwood Literary Journal, Rhino, Meat for Tea, Under a Warm Green Linden and many other journals. This is a poetry submission