And Michael You Would Fall

Poetry | February 18, 2010

And Michael You Would Fall

This was the night I would kill you, stuff you under the bed
with Cinderella and the broken shoe.
Would bury you with the empty pencil, paste, purse
you left me here with—you left me, and left me.
I would drive so far from this underbelly of pine,
take the longest way home until I found the river calling—
       you are the oldest child
              keep living.

Keep the crown.

Shallow, I would dig in, around, and with the neighbor’s dog,
a tiring machine, fit and unable, running wild with the pack—
take the warning when spring rolled in our red ribbon throats,
I can not contain this for you—the agony against every dream I chant
inside
my winter boat.
I believed in the boots, the hardiest dictator of mouse and fear,
the lion massaging west wind under your nose.

But like you said under that Mexican sun,
the anger belly has always given me words, allowed me time to shift
and burn, and swelter—my gullet.
Yet, you are my only living son,
my solitary apple closest to man, staunchly holding von livelihood—
       the only task I take with bread.


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About MacKenzie Kell

In the quiet moments of winter you will find me happiest--a pen, a poem, a place where the world makes sense for a moment..
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