Wednesday, April 13, 2011

[my riches I have squandered. spread with honey]

a song of the prodigal son

my riches I have squandered. spread with honey
the arval bread in my pocket and nary a farthing

lived for a spell among roaches in a rickety squat
between the alcohol detox and the catholic church

peeled my plump white bottom. a sauvignon grape
[now exsiccated: the wizened sultana makes no golden cake]

crouched in the gulleys. wiped with leaves
cooked roadkill: topped with government surplus cheese

snuck in underage at club 21 (2121 21st street, long gone)
wastrel opal-throated bird: a moulting quivers along the pinion

I fear my mucus: its endless volume and amorphous shape
a demon expelling from my lips. the moon wags its tongue

each dull morning the mirror imagines me a future: older misshapen forest: stinging adder and sprawling spider

the way to haven seems interminable. I creak and shuffle
listen, you wilderness: make plain and let me pass

--D. A. Powell


Doctor Cleveland said...

That is the best poem not by you that I have read since lunchtime. (I taught Shakespare before lunch.)

But really what I want to say is: congratulations! I saw the announcement of your award, under your assumed name! Wonderful!

Renaissance Girl said...

It's a really good poem, isn't it? And are you reading poems by me over lunch? Hmmm. I've always thought I trended a bit too grotesque for polite company.

And seriously: thanks so much.