/merrillcole/

 

He cannot blame it

for the murder, though the story

clings to what he loves

like cancer. Otherwise the

half-eaten legs would bend

beyond what he can bear, he

never tasting the reward.

 

Does the crime follow

the compass or the minute

hand? The wrong hole,

he knows, has been filled.  This

is how he should live, and

this is how it should end. This is,

the story said, and this and is.

 

Resolution tightens around

the neck, his mouth no longer

open. Wash the blood off

turning points. But no

twist strangles the disease.

 

The eye looking back is

a fist that hits nothing. The hand

hides nothing. Blue

lollipops of regret don’t satisfy.

 

He cannot run without legs.

All lies are made of sugar.

Who believes this is the end?

 

Trickhouse 9 (Summer 2010).