Body: True Story
I stood on a wheat-grassed hill,
It's crest a overpass.
Pine rows below overgrown.
Forming into forest behind.
My childhood grounds.
Three boys, friends in time
Winter of "78"
When clouds dropped heavy
Deep covering, white cold
Draging sleds, overstuffed
In snowsuits.
The boys used this hill
With joyous lust
And loud laghter.
Slicing with metal runners
Above depths of storms.
A ramp.
Formed snow tight.
Near bottoms incline.
Shot there pleasure upwards
Twards a haze of gray,
In the quick, gravity's glee
Bodies held tight, gut waiting
For ramps flight.
Later that spring
A newspaper tucked
Under my arm
Told of a woman,a body.
Beaten, burnt
Left in the fall.
We stood, three boys looking.
Polices tap streamers,
And vehicle tracts.
Seeing black Reminisce
On white grass shoots.
We could smell decay
Were the ramp use to be.
Three boys, guilty faces
Scilently reminiscing joyouse lust
On the back of violated dead
Over and over to the haze of gray.
Life kept the body and heavy.
Burdend by snow-pleasure.
( had trouble with this one, comments I would greatly need, thanks Johnathon.)
Copyright © Johnathon Souders | Year Posted 2009
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