Day Four: ‘Easter Fire’

April 4, 2013

They burned his body like an Easter fire.

After, the children left coughing on car

freshener odor. He knew well the scent.

His friends lurched round pillars in clusters, huffed

a cloud of memories, and promptly split.

Still no word on the sister —

Buffalo or some snowy hell above.

His folks have worn his sins on their faces

for years, a collective drooping plague.

Now they wear the debts in crow’s feet,

black holes under the eyes. We pretend not to see.

 

Theodore, you scattered devil, with your pointer finger

slipped out the driver’s window, ashing life

as life charred your tiny moments.

In the dorm vaudeville act, the pot plants, the yellow flesh,

youth’s rich syrup slurped too fast — the bellyache.

The moments form mosaics of three decades

in blackout grey, your crimes too vividly

remembered by the enduring all of family.

 

With that much black poison sloshing around

the veins, it’s a miracle he stood the chair

to set the belt. But he did. God-winged and bright.

And Theodore the bold now sleeps alone

with rock and mud as blankets and a sprawling

neighborhood upon his face.

To easy graves that never have it easy,

we mind your remains as wilting crops

or an endless blaze of reed and palm and perfume:

too late for rescue, too early to mourn.

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One Response to “Day Four: ‘Easter Fire’”

  1. […] good to see you, Theodore. Your eyes look wilder than last time. Your belt hangs off your bones. Beard’s a nice touch […]

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