He stands defiant and unprovoked
but needing to prove something
and his glazed eyes say
that he never touched
his father’s mouth
or wanted to
like the way he forced
his fist into mine,
and now it’s four against three.
Our shadows spar
on the canvas of white
sharply defined and black
as the starless sky
and the dark pupils
of intoxicated frat-punks.
I want to commit murder.
It tastes like copper and tequila,
the desire to kill.
In the frozen stillness,
our words echo like fencing razors
and defile the beauty of silence,
but no blood spills.
On this night, each side retreats
and retraces their footsteps
before the falling snow
can erase the memory.
Jay Sizemore dropped out of college and has since sold his soul to corporate America. He still sings in the shower. Sometimes, he writes things down. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Rattle, Prick of the Spindle, DASH, Menacing Hedge, and Still: The Journal. He’s never won any awards. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.
