We stood on cement monuments of men
looking at the field of buttercups.
Yellow majestic rolling tolling the wounds
of the soon forgotten
who never got forgot.
An innocence in
Buttercups for blood.
A springtime bluster for plumes of Civil smoke.
Mortar passing souls in little explosive shells.
And an abundance of cheap fertilizer.
An innocent America that penetrates itself.
She stood on the brim of the field of fate
and discovered wit and rhetoric
while my sisters dabbled in sub-humor and trinkets,
straddling a nearby cannon.
And against the shining timeline of the sun,
gilded with halos,
I saw myself my first.
A caustic lip, brown dangle,
menstrual, trickle tickle on the slender
Maternal infinity.
I felt the twisted piracy.
No field of Buttercups could be
as much a part of me
as the field that gave me birth,
where I would make my grave.
And still my youthful palette whet
with impulses of lewd caress.
Or better yet
to stake claim with my bayonet.
- 11-10-’03
03:58
