.Too often it was. by daybreaksmiles
impossible to see the
horizon; the way
forever curled, sleeping, in
the lines of our palms.
Devious Journal EntryI can promise you this muchDevious Journal Entry by Braxton-T-Rutledge
there's no part given i'll ever
let go of. not the sweat stank
of the small of your back or the
way you dry heaved on the gym
floor or the twelve second
hug that, almost, spun into
madness, my hippocampus
has a menstration cycle, and
up and out into the cortex it
sloughs off the layers and
layers, to be collected
recycled, repeated again
every season, every new
face wide and flat and
freckled, green in the spring
of promises i long since
Devious Journal EntryMy mother told me this:Devious Journal Entry by Braxton-T-Rutledge
the second world war was won,
not in the bunker when hitler
made himself in the image of
not when stalingrad bled the
wermacht dry or when the
boys in the pacific sank the
carriers at midway.
The war wasn't won when
palestine became israel,
her mother didn't win when
she saw america under the wheels
of plane, my mother told me this:
the war was won when I, suddenly,
born to a jew who was born to a
woman who wasn't really a jew
until hitler showed her to the camps
until the germans burned her records
and anyone who could have known different
a jew, because she might have been a gypsy
and, after all, maybe her father was the jew.
my father was a deist and my mother
was a light the candles maybe
spin the dredle maybe
couldn't say the kaddish and
never went to service sort of jew.
but my mother told me this:
I am a jew, i am the promised son
like issac, like david, supposed
to bring down the lig
of my reaction when I woke hours later
to find my driveway a graveyard for pansies
and the battered carcass of their housing
strewn across the lawn where it was felled. I'm not angry.
It was just a plastic bucket after all, the kind you buy
a dime a dozen at the hardware store.
This afternoon I'll drive to town and spend an inevitable
three hours hunting for a suitable replacement
to a planter whose shape and style was retired five years ago.
Then I'll trundle back home in rush hour traffic and begin my task
of packing dirt and flower bulbs - maybe tulips this time -
into the too-big too-square too-new flower box.
If I scare a few of the neighborhood kids it's only because
they've never seen such passionate gardening before.
And tomorrow when I pick up the mail,
there will be nothing left to remind me of you.
*my biggest issue is with the ending - the last two lines really. I'm not sure it's strong enough or at a good place or really hitting the poem home.
Currently working on: found poems - will upload soon!
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If you're interested in my fanfiction, you can find it here: blackcoffeelies.livejournal.co…
Also, some awesome references for poets: