Poetry’s Lament

For Zardasht Osman

I.

Who has died?

Not from the sharp angles of my succinct metaphors

nor the poisonous shimmering of my images.

But from the brutal blade of silver

slicing through muscle.

A copper-nickel bullet plowing its path,

piercing the pulmonary.

A white-knuckled fist wrenching

fragile flesh.

Violence is not metaphorical or lyrical.

There is no song to it,

no rhyme nor clever meter.

Only the low guttural groan of sudden

grief, then howling a keening loss.

Violence speaks its own language

babbling nonsense to the living.

Confess Nothing

Confess nothing

    when they ask

where you’ve been. How could they know

that alley where rats scuttled, moon-lit

among broken beer bottles and the stink
of dumpstered lives. How could they know

the metallic taste on your tongue
when he stuck the gun in and said,
suck or die. How could you possibly

tell them how you ripped red
from his unshaven cheek, shoved
kneecap to groin so he groaned,
and he hammered his fist in rhythm with
your hammering heart, left

you curled and curdled among the rot.

Confess nothing when they ask for it—
some description of his face, the color
of his jacket. How could you say

you had danced in his arms beneath fake stars.

Confess nothing then, when they shake their heads
and persist and insist and say you’re safe
when you know you are not. You are not.

Only later, when we sit in moonlight and years
have dusted your memory and beneath your hairline

the hidden wound has closed and become a scar,
unasked, you will say, I knew his name.

And you will tell me the fake stars and the alley
and you will say, I opened myself to it.

And I will try to convince you otherwise,
but you will shake your head,
press your lips together to confess
nothing of your innocence.


©Ami Mattison, 2011


Flickr photo courtesy of dcJohn

The Defense

Begin with the slash of her

scabbed lips.

Notice the negative space

her cheekbone, its blaze.

                                               

Now, look into the pupil,

squinting from swollen lids,

rainbow of a bruise beneath

her lashes where

a curled hand hit home.

She is somebody’s home.

She flaunts it,

juts a cut chin when

stranger’s gawk,

stares back.

The doctor,

the cops,

the social worker—

they say she’s got to press charges.

Why would I do that? 

And the slash curls.

    

You should see him.

Flickr photo courtesy of Alice Popkorn