Volcabulary of the Dead
i’m cooking these words on the stove,
hoping they won’t burn—
but they burst into flames,
fierce with laser focus,
only to be choked on
when spoon-fed,
and regurgitated
when swallowed.
served like fast food—
empty calories filling the gaps
meant to comfort,
to reorder.
part of the standard American diet.
words on a bun,
piled high with all the fixings,
a digested impact crater,
in the pit of our gut.
politicians try them on
like shoes—
until they fit,
but seldom do.
words written
to fall off the paper’s edge,
into the echo chamber
of insincerity.
instead, they carve them into stone—
only to shatter
when dropped.
formulated words
to soothe,
to numb pain.
thoughts folded into paper prayers,
thrown skyward.
officials toss them high,
a solemn beacon of fortitude.
but the touch of a dead child
shoots them as skeet.
bullets spoken as words,
spat out with ease,
surrender to normalcy—
just another
American day.
---
**2**
an errant boy,
garden hose in hand,
sprays the clouds full
as mourners careen
to pay respects
to his family.
words,
drenched in sorrow,
are washed away
by the cloudburst.
the open umbrellas
amplify the drops
into a steady drum beat,
as they hit, roll,
and vanish.
---
**3**
Ashai cradles
a red plastic ball,
her palms hoping
to find its role.
meant to roll,
to wander,
to tumble,
perhaps even fly
through the air in play—
but it’s too hard to bounce,
too light to throw.
small worries,
circle before settling,
inside her pretend world.
---
**4**
the chevron-blue lake
draws an outline
along the water’s edge,
a loneliness floats
on its water mattress,
bobbing the loons
into calling for solitude
before it reaches us all.
shivering leaves rustle
signalling the night breeze
whispering warnings
of another cloud spill
by the garden hose.
Copyright ©
Casey Hart
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