80 Degrees

Blood mixed in the soil, the Earth turns 80 degrees, a child fell into its mouth tonight.

The father buried himself with a candle and a knife, a letter and a pen, gave his daughter instructions on where he would be in the next century.

She hears the sound of Jupiter in the air tonight,

                                    the planets are making sounds as if they’re fucking, the whole family is
                        enraptured by the tune.

 

there is the sound of sex in a coffee shop off the interstate, life is being made amongst the grounds of salt on the counters, we are made together against our will in this family.

 

            our father sings a tune as he picks lemons from the trees, he is already wet from the
day, his ears shining like diamonds

 

His greensleeve is caught on a branch

 
                                    His love is hanging off the wall

 
Mother takes down his pants in front of the children

                                    May they now know the secret of how this all began.

 
 

His fist is balled into a weapon

            The wall bearing the brunt of his anger, drops of the children are buried in the garden, it is hard to tell one from the other at this point. Anger is the family meal, the children eat well, desert served in an iron mask, desert served atop their mother’s stomach

            Yes, the children eat well that night.

The youngest of the clan was given a book of poems by a killer at too young an age, so his thoughts have turned vile

 
            He smokes cigarettes like a fish out of water, caught himself a catcher in the rye

But won’t tell his father buried under the ground that he is now a poet.
 

Won’t tell his mother amidst her torture that he drags death into his bed every night, eats him out in the dark, He tastes like every cut he has ever sustained, raw oyster sliding down his throat. Like a tongue over razor blades, the blood mixes well with the skin’s oil and the boy feels wed fed.
 

            And his house used to be loud with the callings of life, cider was drunk on the porch of cold autumn mornings before the Bull ran rampant and crashed in the foundation.

                              Fireflies liked to be caught in the children’s teeth, their wings appetizers
                  for new life,
                              Only now the fireflies are gone, now the children’s teeth are powder
                  ground into the dirt

 
Father holds

a dagger between his teeth and sleeps beneath the dirt.

 
 

            mother

 

has taken another lover and he shines bright with death in the daylight.
 

The boy watches a lover go by and thinks about all the ways in which he will kill him tonight.

 

                        In the city, this house has burnt down and Blue is the only color that remains.

Ian Powell-Palm is a writer, poet, and musician currently living in Bozeman, Montana. You can find out more about his poetry and his future readings at his Facebook page, Powell-Palm Poetry.

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