Breadcrumb #309

CONNIE LEE

They always told me that

I would go down in history.

Vicious creature, thing of beasts.

I would roam the vast

red dirt canyons, sun gleaming the dust

in my fur, sand jamming its way in

between my claws.

Head held high by the crown

blessed by the food chain above.

I’d hear the countrymen below say

It’ll kill you children, eat your pets,

do not stare into the iridescent eyes

or its bites will be met.

Their shotguns finally crackled,

holes torn through my organs,

staining my fur.

My children watching me,

bushing tails and overgrown paws

now on their own.

I did go down in history,

even dipped in gold.

This countryman has me

front and center.

How he tamed the wild beast

as my vagrant eyes stare at his cadets.

Brave one, aren’t ya?

• • •

 

Breadcrumb #308

RICHARD QUIGLEY

Yes, I’ve been told about the sea
kept behind two closed doors.

About the mirror, how our breathing
is now monitored

by regime. At times
no one believes me. At times

my mind petals against the better part
of memory

Then rusts. I don’t flinch
for anything and refuse to go quietly.

No further questions,
they told me.

It’s merely customary to fight
in order to stay

locked inside of a flaming city.
Be taught the work and do the work

Guaranteed to break hands. Here,
I’ve heard what it means to love

is chained like a dog
and killing is the new human

victory.
In the sewn-up pockets

of the living, little grim apologies
are carried like stones

which read:
I’m so sorry that you need me.

• • •

Breadcrumb #307

JORDAN FRANKLIN

My unborn son, you were not
meant to thrive here. I am
Death      incarnate, mamba
under a blouse, the trunk
darkening to charcoal. See how
the failed vessels make

an Eden of me, its emerald
leaves dim. Your brothers,
sisters—I loved them all
into the earth. Nothing
rose.         Split me
over an operating table

or a canvas. Soften
the openings in oil.
Your father    opens me
like a wall, ignores
the shaken       columns.
He expects his face

but there      you      are,
ruby-cradled
in this quiet. I plucked
its barbs myself so you may stay
in this redness, its garden heat
intoxicating as a womb.

• • •

Breadcrumb #305

DAVID IACONANGELO

When you
and you
would lie together,
the bed would eat
your recognition:

the smells of your bodies
the tastes of your mouths
the weight of your bodies
upon and beneath;

that knowing of the body,
your most trusted knowing,
your ancestors’ knowing
in their brutal millennia.

And your beloved
was not your beloved.

You
and you
may have felt that something was awry
and groped for light.
There was no light
It wouldn’t go on.

Or else the bed had eaten well
the bones crunched up
no other searching
could take place

it seemed there was
no other knowing
but your ancestors’ knowing
in their brutal millennia.

A yellow door would open then
The lid unscrewed
on jars of laughter

The bed would eat
the last of your knowing.
Your beloved
was not your beloved.

• • •