Image by Jonah Giuliano

The people start at the house and madly run to the water;

Lonely One

Chases us all,

Before time expires when we are

Instantaneously rewound

To our starting positions –

Whoever she caught now chases with her,

And some run again.

Poverty, child at the hip,

heterochromatic eyes flashing blue and gray,

Arguing stridently in the muddied lean-to,

An institution never known to me, but

Situated properly in the mulched ground beyond the grass

Of the backyard of my childhood home –

Arguing stridently

“What? No, you can’t,” I exclaim. His face is freckled

beneath a burgundy

“Yes, I can,” he retorts.

“Why do you believe that? Why would you want to?” I whispered.

“Because… I make the most milk.”

I, offended, slapped him –

Sometimes it feels very good to be offended –

She shouts like an unmasked divinity.

Her sharks and minnows gather against me,

“How could you! How could you!”

Their writhing court of indignation

“Let me speak! Let me speak!

Decide for yourselves!”

I sink into the hardwood floor.

Poverty looms over me,

Uneven eyes

Flashing Vindication.

Her body is like stillness’ lake

Bound to Echinacea

His face is like a boyish round

Pressed to sliding glass

Their bodyminds a likeness take

As bread crumbs in my bed

Their body be like Summer ground

If death would let us pass

Luke Tyson

Luke was born in North Carolina, but raised in Pensacola, Florida. He currently attends St. John's College at their campus in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He works as a tutor.

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