His Grandfather was a man thick of arm, And bold to temper. Striding forth green counties, Pulling and swagger. He cleaned his pipe every third day And held a gun close in a closet. Violence so rare and true And none so true as the silence Of his first born boy.
Tiny Shoulder belted in the dark, Tiny shoulder while the hoover is being murdered, Tiny Shoulder silenced by the casual jeer of young men.
His Mother cut like glass, Black as night walking the lane, Singular and potent. She is alone, sun aspiring - A cloudless anomaly, Broken from the broad men, The whisky beards, the hellish hand And the silent loving mother Compliant in the pantry.
Tiny hands, tiny feet, Star drenched eyes Lies in the booming sun, while she devours his love - Wholesome, true, without limit, confined and splayed.
A bountiful love once bestowed defies now an earth bending sadness.
Tiny Shoulder Tiny Shoulder Sees sees sees With tender alarm and Finds not the heavy hammer, The broken door, the shivered glass but Skin so young and broad, White teeth, bliss,
time slow, music…
Outside.
He suffers. Head bowed. Hands clasped, Fevered and reverent.
Tiny Shoulder Tiny Shoulder
You must not feel so alone. The Gods play dominoes on the soles of your feet. Your Grandfather mourns with a cackle, Your Mother bellows God with a simper. You are spread across a colossal earth, Unbending, unwavering, strident And the gods are steadfastly congruent.
There is a pipe wailing mourn for you. There is a cherry blossom dream waiting.
