(his name is j.uan)
(his name is j.uan)
He sits in a seat on the subway, as the train growls steadily, moving
closer and closer to its destination.
He gets off the train, and delivers his package to the post office,
looks upward to the sky, sees a pigeon flying.
At his right, a truck pulls up the driveway of a yellow-brown house,
Well worn with age, wear, and tear. A woman weeps for the soldier who
Lost his arm, lost his way; the wind rises from the ashes, torn from roots
And old things, the hammering of his heart beats steady, steady.
His hair is blown back by dragon’s claws, eyes piercing bright blue, stars like
Opal gossamer wings.
In the deep of the night, the crickets burst into screams
Of deception, crying still in the cold night. Above, in the greatness
of the sky,
A blue jay does a swan dive into a parking lot rescues a lone crumb.
My mother is not home yet. Her shopping cart is empty, she does not know
Her way home through the thick crowds of Londoners, lost in a sea of fog,
A temptation of oblivion. They want no stories, only freedom.
Rumors circulate of a break-up, Shakespeare cries out in the lone London night,
Staggering drunkenly from pub to pub, trying to find the lost deer at
Hyde’s Park.
Trust has been broken. There is no trust, just gold rings and burnt
pages, nothing
But worn out words and Hallelujah’s in old white churches and broken
News reels.
Straight from gardens,
A butterfly comes, puckering its feelers and left wing, to drink in
golden pollen.
Somewhere, far off, an owl.
Born with green grass roots, tie the knot with the back of a hand.
Damn that strong handed simpleton, promises are those things that cannot
Be kept.
Dorsey likes woodwork, pen knives, wood carvings-she lives in a hut in
Wellington.
Juan is not her boyfriend; she likes Harold, Henry, Harry, the chap
who engraved her name on his ipod and sold it on eBay for something
that was worth more than
A house. Grim realizations, shouting, catcalling; the dimness of
readiness reaches
Her ears and she takes out her old wedding dress and puts it in the window on
The second floor of their yellow brick house.
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Authors: Apryl Fox. Form: Poem. Length: 40 lines. Editor who accepted this story: Previous Editors.
Author Bio
Abandoned Towers Content: (his name is j.uan) After October
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