I WROTE A PUDDLE WORD

MATT DENNISON

 
 

      It’s not just river clay that plies between my fingers,
      dimes between my dirt-tables turned and turned
      within the fossil-light, but the lone and sickly-green
      photo of my ugly brother’s winsome form splayed
      across the yard. Upon his birth the nurse rose immediately,

      proclaimed him unsturdy, that a backwards life would be
      best for him. Never to be electrocuted or forced to wear
      a rubber suit a milestone north of here was the best

      they could hope in their struggling beds. Extremely
      educated teachers, poets of the blackened soul’s

      one scalding bath, howled a life cursed with
      perfect recall never to escape the burden of infancy
      or the cost involved in that. I would come in when
      so ordered, pour the piss-pot off the porch and slather
      back their doubts. The white-washed walls of the dead
      do not represent what happened, before or after the killed
      cats and dogs, though of all of us he’s done the best keeping
      the old ghosts off his bed. Don’t open that book!
      he’d cry as I settled by his side to read aloud.
      Open the window! Look!

 

 
 

∘∘∘