Mourning A Stray Bullet Murder of Child in Compton -------------------------------------------
She folds back a sheet of dust
To show the room steady
with metronome ticking.
A child’s scrawled name,
marks each inch that
has climbed through slow years.
She speaks, but her voice is in the way
murdering language one syllable at a time.
Wheels diseased with spokes
Flat in the gutter of her throat
where her words lay half choked
out into the dust at her lips.
This new English without consonants
spoken between clutched breath
spills vowels out
onto a suicide beach.
whales swim through it
black backed in wet sand
sheathed in powdered light
they understand her hump backed
words, croon and curve the lonely
arc , low in the salt spray sound.
Drying to dust in the place
Where noise ebbs away
to form the four gray walls
that shake with each
Click of the metronome’s arm
You have some very intricate detail here. I really liked the way you described how a young child chops of the English language, simply because they are just learning it; I found that very clever. The title was really interesting as well, it's what mainly drew me in, but the poem itself is what held my interest all together. I might read some of your other stuff as soon as I get the chance, but as of now, I have to be gone of this website (dishes are evil). Peace.