a poem by Roger B Rueda
My wounds have almost got well
After years of being despoiled:
Your cohorts, now your other sides,
And you, you know, have minced
My heart and my brain. It is you
Who have made me burn and
Almost breathe my last.
Your glowering at me has made
My wounds weep again. Now,
I am dead duck. Does that make
You fly high? Oh my goodness,
What awful brains. Perhaps yours
Is of the crab or the frog.
Don’t bend their ears, they already
Know you are archangelic, you are
Lily white. But I know, God knows
Too, that inside your chest of drawers
Are your dainty heart and your
Infernal soul. So, when you drop
Off, are you ready to fly in face of
Maker or me word for word?
What pageantry are you drawing up?
Is it not really to be here, but in great
Unknown? Well, it is your spark—
The spark that has cut me to the quick.
My only prayer for you is that you
May pick up your stars soon. Your stars
Have slurs but are glazed with my gore.
Be careful: your stars have fine ground
Spires and they might do me in next time.
Or is it you, and not your stars, who could
Do me in? I know you now, Ricky: You are
Like my frothy sip at Coffeebreak.
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