Oh, You Brightlings
What is this strange logic? It is news-
papers and apples, cored to the
core. Bright garlands of nonsense, ir-
-reverent whistling. A strategy of
deprivation
and a coldness that scores the bones.
In her appled cheeks he thought he saw
himself, but stripped of mistakes, new
life without sin; blameless. Almost sin-
full-y so. An
emptiness
to be admired, not scored.
But these stories have been told before.
There is seldom news in this land.
Only reverent gossip and depraved
whistling.
A modicum
of violence mistaken for tenderness.
An eye for an eye, a fish for your
cheek—and garlands of popcorn to ring
the new year in, all of us having made a mess
of the old one. The annum nova
lies before us, blame-
less.
She does not speak or beckon.
Somewhere, somewhere, some
—where else?—in another land, some-
where, not here
there are no fools left. Only reverent angels
carrying strings of apples, all of them
missing
their seeded cores.
Jean-Michele Gregory
10:37 AM