The Web Poetry Corner

Ari Kantal

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arikantl@bellsouth.net (Ari Kantal )

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I stood
at your
head while you were dying
and did not grieve
when that little thing was done
At your graveside,
your friend Jim touched my shoulder,
"so strong," he said of me: (because I did not weep)
But I have never seen bones: to weep; for what is; buried; in your grave; No one knows, Pop; Daddy's; little; boy; is; still; keeping the (secret)

I think of you sometimes
I see someone who reminds me of you

sometimes

Then I remember
the smell
of you
the muskiness of your embrace
the tobacco and the rum
and yes, the taste of you
the heavy part of you
in my throat

I think I died

I am a dead man
as filled with memories
as I was with you

in me

slick
with your sweat
dripping

under the terrifying
weight of you
I do not resist
but spread my legs
like a good boy

You do not like tears
so I will not cry
I will bury my face in my pillow
as you love me

Vagabonds.
Don't you see them
Stagger like mummies--
By night under the bridge,
By the cold streetlight

Hands held
Deep in a dying fire.
Their Eyes like headstones--
Cast about, look deep in me,
Watch the fire dimming out

I do not
Know them but they know me.
They cover me with crosses--
A disguise, though incomplete.
Now dims the flicker of corpses--dead Eyes

Dead Eyes.