Susan Sonde’s most recent poem to appear here was “Roll Call” (December 2018).

I Want to Know
By Susan Sonde

In this, our twenty-first century of technological savvy—

who hides in the handwriting of dark nights his dread, sustains in the imprint of his flesh illegible bruises—the harsh traffic of consonants, reads in the folds of water the sky’s inky imprimatur? Does the sun, the reflected sun lie soaking on bare brick? Does it adjudicate—arbitrate—eradicate the lightning buried in hoarfrost on mountains—the muteness of
a tree in its venture around the years—bare tree on the outcroppings of a windy horizon?

Who ignites the match with an unarmed flame, squelches the meat, collects the grain, bakes the loaf, slices it and ekes out a living—I want to know when sorrow will leap to its foregone conclusion, who’ll quarrel with it, hang for it; rot in solitary—who set free to tell little white lies to foolscap?

Who writes with a Swiss army knife on the underside of a lighted candle, takes cover in the shade of a right angle, catalogues the gluttony of growth rings—fingernails caught
in cantons? Does the cornucopia of oblivion ever fill?

Who exchanges mountain goats for mania, peacocks for broodmares, fish
trapped in the pupils of fire ants for the dog star’s fealty to the long loveless nights?

Does his heart skip a beat at the sight of bloody footprints emblazoned on a battlement, blood collecting in its crenellations? The blood of insects crushed against tarpaulins?

Beauty, does it come back to pillage?

Does the air above a copter’s blades—oxygen in turmoil change our pronunciation?
Are rocks nimble, the sea a guarantee—moss
can it evict flowers—algae the sea?

Who still wears a breechclout, who his black belt—locks combed forward, posing for onlookers, preening in mirrors between walled-in windows at night, red wave
sculpted with resins, false widow’s peak stiffened with propellants? Someone, not you, chooses licentiousness over abstinence, disengagement from entanglements—the web of equations, their moody algebras.

Who offloads the coffins of angels—barters for golden coffin nails—loses himself among constructs, immolations unceasing? I want to know—

blind men playing polo—wolves caught in leg traps so I can water their empty gazes.