A Far Cry

CW: Contains some disturbing images

I am a far cry from my brother’s mouth,

the hole he burned in the couch, the blue cat 

on the bannister that woke him screaming.

I am my mother’s reaction to the medication,

the red ribbon tied round her vanity mirror, the pig 

that stood at her bedside, with glowing red eyes.

I am the blood splattered on the kitchen wall, 

the glass of all six windows I busted out of 

the front door, every last dinner dish shattered.

I am the swollen veins in my mother’s black eye,

the family photographs, the phonograph records 

torn up and broken and thrown in the dumpster. 

I am the body and blood of the crucified Christ 

stretched upon the cross, in the sixplex apartment 

gone-to-slum, at the dead end of Ohio Avenue.

I am State Route 21, the dead fish and river rats 

that lined the shores of the Tuscarawas — I am 

writing as I am uncertain if anyone even saw us.

Blood Orange

An Offering

Two man-made ponds 

just outside of Brownsville/Halsey, 

ducks afloat in fog 

against a thousand baby pine 

awaiting sun. I offer blood orange

to a stranger on the bus 

who only moments ago 

kissed his brother on the mouth.

I’ve hung with rough boys 

long enough to know, I think to pray 

beneath the steeple 

of the First Presbyterian — 

only because it is beautiful, 

as he was. Later, passing through 

Woodburn/Molalla, 

a hawk in a tip top branch.

Fields of young hazelnut, 

a yellow house, an old metal barn, 

miles of cattle grazing, 

more mature trees rising up —  

silhouettes against the mist 

where dot after white 

dot of sheep keep vigil — clouds 

with blue sky barely visible, 

breaking sun. Beyond Arndt Road,

just outside of Tualatin, 

cherry blossoms bloom pink 

and white, on the same goddam tree.