if I could explain
why you are,
I’d have crumbled
into your existence—
instead
I circle pastures,
your hypothetical hand
gripping faintly,
the untapped possibility
of aimless drives
in the night,
your potential head
cradled in the sweaty crook
I call an elbow
if I await your eyes,
my eyes,
to open
I will show me,
I will show you,
how many angels
on a tree stump,
stench of a newborn lamb,
scratch of hoof on thigh,
electric vibrato licks—
I’ll tell you lies
about cassette tapes
your iris will blur, vaguely
dirt-green like my own,
gape at stars,
overgrown maple trees,
so much to tell you, son:
insipid mortality,
tautologies in Sanskrit,
or Hebrew, or languages,
dead language,
you never invented—
I curl, potato bug,
into your grave,
which I’ve dug
in case
you are ever born.
Super excited to read your poems this month. You’re a master of sound and movement.
This poem is excellent. However, it makes me sad for the child that never developed a heart nor head my voice of promise, hope, and poetry that I attempted to impart through the wall of its mothers belly.
Thank you Rudy. It’s certainly a melancholy poem.
This broke my heart. My favorite part is the use of “potato bug” image. <3
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