Between the years that answer,
the nights ask impossible questions
make us stumble, stripped bare
and so sorry.
I protest the passing with plans:
a green house with black walls
tiny boots by the front door
quiet moments of commiseration
that make up for months
But this night is a nosy intruder.
Tactless and too loud, demanding decisions
reminding us only of mortality:
Your father’s skin yellows like a lingered bruise.
A bulging bag of piss and blood
at blueing feet,
makes shame heavier than pain for now.
They twist the knife by trying. In pastels,
peak the poison until
driftwood arms and eyes empty,
he’s absurd and unfamiliar.
You wait for solace.
“Something over something”
“something point nothing,”
but it blurs without softening—
a pillow you can’t touch
a blanket for a bloodless man.
I tell you years will make this strangely matter,
the way white scars become our favorite stories
the ones we share on first nights,
sleepless and certain
I say won’t it be nice to take him to a game,
buy his first beer,
lay out in the yard,
watch him wiggle white lines like lips and giggle
that low, lulling noise.
But tonight is too loud.
Tonight is a mockery, grinning,
low and lulling and leading to nothing.
bloodshot, bleary, ballooned
like the yellow mylar smile tied tight to the tube,
A useless angel
above the wires,
(I say goodbye to all of you.)
–Kristina M Sarhadi
Kristina is the editorial director of Blak Licorice. Her work has appeared in literary journals throughout the US and UK. She holds a BA from Vassar College, an MSW from USC, and several other acronyms.