Deuteronomy
If I had another son I would call him Deuteronomy, and he would have clouded eyes of silver-blue, and play the saxaphone standing on tables in smoky late-night clubs, so that I may cry and pray for him, all the words of my heart compressed into a simple riff of notes that zoom and spread themselves across the dark night, knifed and withering sounds, my son the stranger smiling into the wrecked city with the windows down and his yellow hair tussled as silk gets forever serving the gods, that small fear sold to make delicate and tender promises come true. My son Deuteronomy, all the air and space and stars, lift and dissolve him into a white space a chest cavity with no heart, the space thumping into itself or pushed into the wilderness; he gets himself hooked on something pleasing and deadly, but lives to pisseth against the wall.Deuteronomy dissolves into my chest, knifed dark night that I am, forever compressed into a saxaphone song, smoky-eyed and wild, starred and ripped, crying for all the delicate hooked words to tumble and play silver-blue, over and over, the fear selling out, falling notes of spread promises, serving small tables of zooming pleasure, my son, sounds yellow, comes true as I lay awake deep into the night dreaming of the city and the garden, hushed up by barbed wire, crying prayers of lilies and shit, the best true love wilder than a hooked melody, crying on and on, his deadly hair like a tendril of dreams.
posted by Cathy @ 10:41 AM
<< Home