catalpa, heart-shaped and boney your daddy died years ago, in redress of his mind, where I leave my fingers on the stone, and I’ll never see him, he is just a rock he is just a worm; you’ve been in my mind but never knew me, I tire; death is half the stradivarius of the birds and their strings of gut than it is mystifying or inbound to limb by limb and the shadow of their men. The root of rock tree limbs near Anchinia cristalis their moth wings in arias and woodland mincing and misplanted in raw-boned eulogy after eulogy and I’ve never known him this man of earth, of war and weedy cypress, lizards and their fluted skins married to the wind; phantom epistles from Vietnam fed by labored tumuli, plummeted fingers into the ground fall and drown, fall and drown.
Posted for the dVerse MTB prompt: Write a Protest Poem with a theme (e.g. voting, social justice, peace & war, violence, women’s rights, human rights, environment, pandemic, etc).
This is not quite a protest poem, but I think it communicates the same idea about what war takes away from us, including our loved ones who either passed in war or lived through their traumas until the end of their life.
Originally published on Ephemeral Elegies. I dedicated this to my Grandfather who fought in the Vietnam War, passing away years later in my early childhood.
bare-bones / wed to abandoning in-utero fingers; the apple bursts like an appendix / and the sea breast to breast / is a mistress to the Kalahari sun / mouthing / to my moon “death goes to the worms” / alien touch / my love has gone / threnody and dream,
as if the Earth is glass / stranded / to the ghosts / of ourselves / this is the body of sand / my love is soon gone to / plasma / in the lights /
threnody and dying the sea is an insomniac maniac / to the glassy violets / and stargazer flowers spawning on an inch of Autumn
death; stroke the worms’ gut death feeds them well when we’re eventually gone /
I tire to grief / alien touch / I withdraw from / the moon’s fingertips / for my love has gone.