Andrew Cyril MacDonald
A meager detritus
To father in the culvert’s sands
peels layers of emotion
our pillows brim of.
Adolescent fear’s the first among them.
So we do it…
but our dances therein a
vendetta underscores as the
last lover you were catching
sieves my bones quick dead
to lead them thin from this
your favoured field, its trough
that’s his to bother.
I carry off then a furtive thing,
cramped and poor of measure
with boredom to outlast any
will to renounce us.
We put our bests on and let the drama
gloss all traces of the Sunday afternoon
its silence we dare not break.
Tiny urchins quick approve,
come across and thrust their palms out
to lift the borders of our tilted economy.
We show no disgust, though,
knowing what we’d come from as they call,
pink tongues in refrain blindness fathers
that we stand still, not afraid
but indolent before
their passion unknown.
Holding you loose in the instant,
you leave my side quickly,
churning change over and over
to walk back where I couldn’t go—
an angel that bends to offer
and suffering relieves them.
She lays before them
snares they’ll fall of
these half-grimace men of soft encounter.
There’s laughter in this
as cold stares fix brawn
and a bed retorts what she cannot help it,
the mind static in stone
her legend makes fashion.
But the night’s consideration excuses
so that a god’s punishment
fades-out before them
in glad instants nothing compares to.