November 29, 2011

Do you like this?

Fifteen Hundred Butternut II Or To my Grandmother
*    *    *   
They took your breasts in the autumn

Ashen days, lonesome smoke smell of leaves

and righteous fire.

They took your womb in the springtime

Our season of malignant rebirth, of cancer growth,

of quiet fear.

They took your tree in the winter,

Mighty oak that had stood watching over your kitchen,

sheltering generations.

Shadeless, naked,

the house persists.

Frozen, thick-skied spring of the North

looking on as they carted off the limbs

Piece by ancient piece

Pronouncing them diseased,


Forbade you to burn them

for warmth.


*      *      * 

You crazy Greek

Word after tumbling word after tumbling word


Man of two poles

Body hung on a hook

Fast talking and bushy-browed

Of planks and equations

Sex and explosions, you spoke

Dark eyes fixed on my wide nineteen-year-old blues.

On Aristotle, the war, you said

"Listen, listen"; asked did I know of Sartre,

Treads on a tank, and love

Seven mile sanctuary

Unholy the cross your back bore

The cracks in the rank, rot-beige

Skin-smoothed walls

Hot smoke in the courtyard

Cold cough in winter

In the drizzled square

You are unshaven, your ashes, like snow,

Fall to the earth.

Remember how later you

Asked me where was that nice blond you liked

With the French name and the kind ears

I heard you fell, you

Fragile ghost of a man and I say

I'm sorry

Sorry I never said

I never said,

"Nick, hey Nick, it's me."


November 29, 2011

Comments (2)

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Yes! We welcome submissions - you can email Chante, our studio editor at Hope to hear from you!

Editor more than 2 years ago


I really enjoyed these poems. Is Easton Savvy accepting submissions?

Michael more than 2 years ago

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