“Shall We Rest This Wickedness Awhile?”
—A.E. Stringer, “Autofocus”
Is there a word in English
for wanting to swallow the sun?
We dream curses &
Technicolor hurts.
Our pages fill with mass graves:
broken bones, bad marriages,
landscapes of loneliness &
want. My friend, we should
put down our pens,
make music instead--
you with guitar & blues harp,
I with a shaker of salt.
Sometimes mayhem
skips from a toe,
unplanned, welcome,
bright as a bonfire,
black as the night behind.
“Who Is This Do-Nothing I?”
—Pablo Neruda, “Negative Hands”
There are shackles a man must wear
beyond his prison years:
Jean Valjean’s yellow ticket,
tears of blue ink trailing down a cheek.
I could lie & say I was innocent,
not a criminal at all, or someone else,
but a writer estranges because
truth drips from his wounds.
I wait, search, & mark my yesses
on those questionnaires of complex hate
to announce I was a scoundrel once, &
swear I’ve repented like a proud man
wearing his tailored suit to Sunday church.
About Ace Boggess
Ace Boggess is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled (Highwire Press, 2003). His novel, A Song Without a Melody, is forthcoming from Hyperborea Publishing. His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, North Dakota Quarterly and many other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.
—A.E. Stringer, “Autofocus”
Is there a word in English
for wanting to swallow the sun?
We dream curses &
Technicolor hurts.
Our pages fill with mass graves:
broken bones, bad marriages,
landscapes of loneliness &
want. My friend, we should
put down our pens,
make music instead--
you with guitar & blues harp,
I with a shaker of salt.
Sometimes mayhem
skips from a toe,
unplanned, welcome,
bright as a bonfire,
black as the night behind.
“Who Is This Do-Nothing I?”
—Pablo Neruda, “Negative Hands”
There are shackles a man must wear
beyond his prison years:
Jean Valjean’s yellow ticket,
tears of blue ink trailing down a cheek.
I could lie & say I was innocent,
not a criminal at all, or someone else,
but a writer estranges because
truth drips from his wounds.
I wait, search, & mark my yesses
on those questionnaires of complex hate
to announce I was a scoundrel once, &
swear I’ve repented like a proud man
wearing his tailored suit to Sunday church.
About Ace Boggess
Ace Boggess is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners (Brick Road Poetry Press, 2014) and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled (Highwire Press, 2003). His novel, A Song Without a Melody, is forthcoming from Hyperborea Publishing. His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, RATTLE, River Styx, North Dakota Quarterly and many other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.