It's just poetry, it won't bite

A History for Samuel

03.31.14 Posted in today's words by

Michael H Brownstein wrote this poem.

A History for Samuel
By Michael H Brownstein

I was raised on a farm with no indoor plumbing
and her long strands of rainbow and leprechaun glitter
slide down her back.
Let’s remember Samuel, she says.
This is not the story of my life.

Sometimes the heart of a smile is in its spray of joy and jasmine;
other times, silver beacons clear weather smooth.

This is a love poem that ends badly,
a death song chanted and varnished, hung to the heavy air of distemper,
trolled through unforgiveness, indifference, lust and cruelty.

Black ice scowled the curve of the highway.
Samuel’s pick-up truck could not hold on.
They found him in the morning in a field of ice
dead and frozen, his head unmarked,
the doors easily opened.

Her eyes pastel shaded and easy,
blue with flecks of gray and brown,
a brightness waking the neighbors at rooster’s calling.

I wish to remember Samuel, she says,
his kind hands and blistered fingers,
his long feet and narrow knees,
his way of talking without an accent
his way of touching my hair with fairy dust.

Audrain County,
deer run across fields of energy
dissolve into stars when night covers the moon.
There is a legend that tells us when the deer bed with the dawn,
it’s their watchfulness that brings the sun to this side of the world
and their wakefulness that sets it to sleep.

Love poems are made of trite blocks,
walls that climb vines to places common,
a blazing virus entering a Garden of Eve’s.

She has a brother and sister of the dawn,
well lit and satisfied,
and she can run with the best of them
and lead the herd to safety

So love goes.


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