by John Dorroh
thorax
there are plants where you step they keep me warm at night
there are ants pouring out of your body they are the good ants
the ones that just get on with things lord i try to be a good ant
just carrying little green hope on my back like a bloodstain
grain
it is raining bullets so hard the sound becomes
an endless echo, an unwelcome guest at dinner
so i decide to write a poem about poetry, about
the dry grass of confusion between my legs
and if i have to wait for my dead god to kiss me
then i will coil my body to so much magnificent sin
that at the end he will place his grain upon my lips
and i will rise like eileithyia, o golden birdsong
Stuart Buck is an artist and poet living in the Rocky Mountains with his wife and two dogs. When he is not trying to write a novel he runs the fictitious small town newspaper The Bear Creek Gazette, listens to Renaissance music and reads as many books as he can.