birthplace 8
My nose puts blood on a baseball. A bicycle,
halfway through my brother, disappears. Keep
moving, says distance. To the lamb in my
deadest eye.
birthplace 9
God learns about bones for three days in a
treehouse that we pretend is on fire. Violence
tells our bodies where we are. I can’t love our
children more than once.
birthplace 10
The basement animals are taking too long to
name. Brother is throwing packs of cigarettes
into a baby pool that sister has recently filled.
The hose is dead, still on, clothing an angel.
Sister wants her hand to be smaller and promises
god every anthill in hell. The animals aren’t many.
birthplace 65
How lividly agony languishes in the loud mercy of
the lived-in lover. I want to say there are songs
like this and I want to say hosanna. The sick
vanished dreadful babies take pictures of how
they’ve been portrayed and they let us call it
heaven this place that means the pain is
different here. I am with my father and together
we name an animal. Mom remember.
AWAY
We live
as if god
could ever
be homesick.
When I’m not looking, my body
ah
fuck.
No golden
melancholy
for the surgeon
with crushed
hands.
Death
needs dying
to be real.
Barton Smock lives in Columbus, Ohio. Most of his work is self-published. His newest non self-published work is 'Wasp, gasp.' (Incunabula 2023). He writes at kingsoftrain.com.
*Editor's note: These poems are excerpted from Barton Smock's latest collection of poetry: Wasp, gasp. To order you copies of Wasp, gasp - click here.
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