An entire country fed

Upon one psyche of a bearded

fool who grew flowers

From his mistakes.

Those millions who recounted

His songs with voices papery

Loose, crumbled fluttering

Through the mammoth stairs

That lead to a small room

Where the heady fingers of incense

Beckoned me at once, toward

And away from its revolting

Taste of piety.


Downstairs on the cool floor

My mother played an instrument

With a neck like I wish I had

that did not cry but hummed

At tones, merely suggesting

What it thought the air should


My mother played an instrument

that bellowed, cried out against

The cruel breath of air, gasping

Not with love but because it must.

My mother played her voice

In the key of fool.


Meanwhile, tiny statues

Repeated themselves

In front of my eyes.


Leave a comment

No comments yet.

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s