Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


when our son is four
we take him to the edge of our plot,
fence-posts eroded under swollen river hurry,
our safety washed away

we put him to work alongside us
he’s eager, grinning himself silly as he digs
his tiny little shovel
muddy hole in the earth

the new fence is farther back from the river,
and he asks why, and we tell him
and he asks all of the questions,
and we spend more energy answering than digging

he’s done his hole,
we help him lift that big timber, drop it down
he watches eagerly as we pound it in,
heavy mallets

“there, that’ll keep the bastards out.”

but of course it won’t
nothing will, save this:
the blood in his tiny heart,
the bones in his tiny fist

the fence is secondary:
we’re out here building a warrior
and his family.


One response

  1. Wow. I don’t even know what to say… This one hit me right in the gut. The word “tiny” has never felt so defiant.

    You’re in my RSS-reader now, that’s for sure.

    December 6, 2010 at 3:14 pm

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