"em ot klat uoy t'now yhw"
she asks, pleads
to whoever will listen
but mostly him, her husband
on his side, back
"kaew os uoy era yhw"
"yob ylwem uoy, yrc"
it is what he was taught,
what we teach
& this week
another one went down,
kicked back as the bomb
it's interesting how criminals always
return to the scene & he sits
where they met each morning, pushing
himself into the crack where sidewalk
meets brick, writing/drawing in his journal
heart, torn twixt, tattooed with his name
by the same hands that refused to let go
til she screamed & cops came
"kcab gnimoc ton s'ehs"
he doesn't want to hear it, but listens
losing words to guttural sounds
hot tears, CraCKs, wet cruNCH
as fists wail the wall again and again
until limp & bleeding
"make them stop talking to MEEEEEE!"
finally forces its way out the internal stoppered bottle
swirled into anger - sixteen, amid his first
break up - a boy/man who won't talk
he's been trained,
'be a man, break something, smash back,
make them hurt'
a backWords raising
between strong & weak,
what is it we expect
& they take him away in the back seat,
but spare the blue lights on the way to the psych
ward, in silence that's become
Over at dVerse Poets, Fred has us writing in another language...well, i kinda did that...my language is backwards and really this is about the inability to understand---which might as well be a foreign language...maybe Fred will give me some grace...so write in another language...all or part of your poem...and bring it at 3 pm EST.