McCannot (prodigalsun) wrote,

glug, glug, glug.

no, you will never
play the harp.
a hymn will never drip effortlessly
from your lips.
till the brittle earth until
your stubborn fingers
bleed money
but gold without glory
is merely a soft rock.
thanksgiving day:
you press the banquet
upon your palate
and chew the cud
once more, with conviction.
you are an indian giver
of thanks.
what you call your home
is a handbasket en route to hell
in the crook of your needled elbow.
the whitest wine,
the blackest coffee.
darkness is not falling
for you.
every night you set the alarm clock
& passover begins:
sleep can smell
the lambsblood of caffeine
smeared across your doorway.
no one dares to cross
your churning moat
of cheap vodka.
some have drowned.
this is the last time
i will be sputtering
& tasting the dirt
of the wrong shore
knowing now for sure
that your palms were always pressed together
for warmth,
not prayer.
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