Interpretation in Small Containers

By Rudolph Lewis

The ropes we all hang by

writhing at the whipping post

are bloody as hell’s tooth

Our mind is that tossing child

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

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’s in the cracks

between the white & black keys

tears & rivers rise between her fingers

On a silver plate our bloody eyes

are stone boulders we bear uphill

like the 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

*   *   *   *   *