Thursday, April 4, 2013



Octogenarian disaster, nonagenarian disaster,
how the flood or fire goes on living long after

water has dried or embers have been stamped out.
The trees remember burning, the riverbanks doubt

they will ever be less muddy. Disruption scrapes
the record, records the damage its claw makes

in you, makes of you a Victrola with a warped song.
As puberty changes the voice, permanently, as long

as you sing you’ll carry the dog bite, the heart break,
the heavy box. Ouchy house guests accumulate,

until you are crowded as Mt. Olympus with the gods
of your grief, planting storms and lightning rods.


  1. Fear, they say, is a memory that collects in the brainstem. This poem is a wonderful expression of that, in both its rich sound and vivid detail. Not sure what ouchy means tho, or the precise physical relationship between an embarrassed pubescent voice and the scars of trauma. But that's, as they say, what poems are for.

  2. Awesome vocabulary...that Victrola line is transcendent with cleverness. I highly enjoyed the pair of "record" and "records," well done.


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