Mourning in the woods,
pulling for the taped tip, anchoring
nirvana to this coiled rope, but knots
twist manically through the iron-tinted
depth, blood-flavored bathwater
(bringing to mind mortal discoveries
on the toilet—when did he know
something was irrevocably wrong?
No amount of cirrhotic pleading can
reclaim the years poisoning our family;
are my notions of axe-burying just
byproducts of urban ego, Big Dan?)
Seems ridiculous, illogical, some would
say predictable—I’ve only glimpsed you
once in the flesh, out of uniform—that
what prevents my mattress, thrown askew
on the freshly laid carpet, from serving as
vessel to rest are fever dreams of your
fierce vision, crimson flecks expanding
under solar heat to cover your arms,
your legs, your tumult, your flight.
James Mahon lives and writes in New Haven County, CT. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Burningword, Bitchin' Kitsch, Enizagam, ArLiJo, Buck Off, and The Insomniac Propagandist.