Alseep amid the guns

Draw the summer a home by the sea

Our key was as low as sea level
and as sharp as a dog’s
last escaping breath
before leaving us.
And no matter what we did
I knew the result would be
the same
and the thread of gold
that we pulled from the flag,
presented at the grave site,
couldn’t have held us any closer
than it already did.

These voices call but I can’t tell
if it’s from home
or to home
or to a waste of time,
like that party you didn’t want to come to,
the one I threw with more liquor
than a benedictine abbey.

At least with the sailors home
the guns will lay quiet for a night
and grow cold and salty
with the sea air.
Then we’ll see who’s left standing
when the bread and mustard run out
and the day treats us like kings,
like we’ve always been,
like the poses that we’ve assumed
and won’t let go.


More Poetry