Image © Ericka Duffy 2016
| by Jeremy Radin | October 7, 2016 |
Dear Sal,
Again your hair spills from the drawers
in sheets of burnished carrot. The dark dictates
I replace this cookie with a shotgun. So un-Jewish,
when there is still this glorious suffering to do! They say
Chekhov was some sort of Christian but we certainly
know better – all that delectable belly-aching, mud flung
at the sky to block out the sun. We parade our wounds
as a child’s wagon through the streets. How delightful
to know the wound is not the cargo, but what we carry
the cargo inside of, the shape we allow the cargo to take.
O, to be on some estate in the jaws of a Russian winter!
I sit in pleasant weather begging the sky to corroborate
the heart’s tragic claims. From the dresser your hair
spills & spills; I would braid it into a noose
but love, it smells like the Northern Lights.
__________
Jeremy Radin is a poet and actor living in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Winter Tangerine, Cosmonauts Avenue, Union Station, Nailed, Bodega, and others, and his first book, Slow Dance with Sasquatch, is available from Write Bloody Publishing. You may have seen him on It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia or yelling about wolves in like a Jamba Juice or something. Follow him @germyradin
Ericka Duffy is an artist who lives in the UK.