Soon, I’ll fold the martyrs
up into inkblots,
sing to and barter with the stars
for a half-pound of light,
and coax dinner out of the pan.
I’ll write stanzas that span
canyons, soon,
soon, I’ll sell the car
that dad gave me, but not
its grief or memory.
The lunar cleft demands that
I continue soon into
the dreadful alleyways of the night,
but I’ll be fine, he says,
I’ll get mine and you’ll get yours.
Soon I’ll know the bleak refrain of death, (he says,)
the life that’s in the chlorophyll,
and spin that’s in the spider—
and I’ll hope that I can at least
become a little closer to
my father, the martyr,
soon to be the ink I’ll spill.
--Place and date unsure. I'll have to look it up in the archives. My favorite lines are "the life that's in the chlorophyll / and spin that's in the spider."