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Interpretation
in Small Containers
By Rudolph Lewis
The ropes we
all hang, a castaway writhing bloody terror
at the whipping post
lashed by hell’s tooth, are our now,.
that child—tossing in
sleep, waiting, awakened—a father,
belt in hand, stands
by the bed, wordless, in that whistling
empty space between
leather & bleeding skin. We all wonder
“Why me?” like that
son with gray hairs sinking heavy in fear
& hate. Bigger than
medicine balls of work, dignity, & learning
respectability mount
the skies like eagles. We know nothing of
that dance that began
so long ago when moth and flame fell in
love. That moment will
not be again like Billie in a basement
of staged blue funk,
moaning “What we do for love?” chairs
rumbling, glasses
clinking souls rattling in liquid Parisian smoke.
On the piano Hazel
plays in the cracks between white and black
keys tears and muddy
rivers rise between her fingers, fill to
overflowing onlookers
sucking sorrow. A silver plate our bloody
eyes are stone
boulders we bear uphill like bone ache of throbbing
flesh. In the deep
dark sound well beneath hearing, our silences
speak dialogues of
fantasy & grief, of camel skin hunger
& shame—lacking hope
we make love to our faithful crutch. |