sunday afternoon: an uncertain future growing from the ashes of the past
by john sweet
|
it's always this time
somewhere
six years
after the death of a father
after the naming of
a generation so fucking useless
i want no part of it
letters from men telling me
my son doesn't stand
a chance
silence from anyone
i ever called friend
and there is a need for beauty
yes
but not for blindness
there are the bodies of
two sixteen year-old girls
forever screaming in the woods
only thirty minutes from
my front door
and i am not looking to
grow as a poet
i am only hoping to survive
as a human being
lorca
i think
would understand this
there are soldiers right now
in countries without histories
chopping off the hands
of small children
cutting out their tongues
and raping their mothers while
i stand in my kitchen watching
the first snow of the
season
while i worry over
my own pale problems
and the fact that i'm no longer
young and not yet old
the fact that my car
probably won't make it
through another winter
the possibility of escape
no longer mentioned
|
|
|
|
Copyright © 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors. No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author. |