Soured Bruises
when things go so bad
that the only things left
is to either do what
your grandfather did
and fail at leaving
this place
by sending a bullet
in your brain
or find some place
that you can pretend
is home until things
stop making your insides
vaporizing in your stomach
and condesning as mercury
seeping in the brain
your aunt’s white carpeted
living room
with a wooden bowl of chips
that she wouldn’t even let
her husband eat
watching G.I. Joe
or
among your cousin’s white pines
laying in the branches aching
from the things she did to you
letting the wind lull you to sleep
or
a couch in the third floor of
the library facing a large window
with dark green trees and a muted
golden sun
or
in thier arms deep in the night
covered in sweat listening
to them breathe not remembering
who or where you are
or
in a car with the windows down
with honey suckle on your lips
mixed with bourbon and heat
water out there in the dark
lapping against the shore
or
scattered across the galaxy
stretched so thin that the warmth
from that massive explosion
still vibrating in our atoms
anything
because it’ll be better
than where you were forged
by violence and rape
on a road
where people called themselves
good folk
6 thoughts on "Soured Bruises"
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This poem is a heavy hitter for sure. That visceral opening stanza really set althe tone for the whole thing, and then that ending. Very good work indeed.
Thank you for the kind words. It’s been a rough year putting out stuff.
You’re welcome. This kind of thing is exactly why I love Lexpomo. It’s an opportunity to meet ourselves where we are at in the most intimate ways possible. I appreciate your courage to go ahead and post these things.
I agree with Phillip–this poem hits, and each keenly detailed section builds on itself. Great work.
.I like the ‘ors’ in between. Good use of language. Hard things to hear. But prob feels good to get out.
The title caught my eye and drew me into the poem. Each stanza paints clear concise heartbreaking scenes. Powerful last stanza.