|
Spencer Troxell
THEY WILL SCREAM WHEN THEY SEE WHAT WE HAVE DONE
When my love climbs up my tonsils I gag
Drink something surprising
To slide it back down. Not now love!
I want you secret. No one respects a love
That is always dancing and twirling things,
This is not a gay pride parade.
This is not the time for unabashed displays.
Put your car keys back in your pants!
No one is driving anywhere.
When my love tugs at my eyeballs,
I roll them around: What, love? What
Could you possibly need? Go to sleep!
This is not bedtime,
And you are not my son!
Good night love. Dream. Eat. Read.
But stay down low, low to the ground!
This is a battlefield, and we are crawling
Through high grass. There are snipers
In the trees. We can't radio. The radioman
Is dead. We can't see the others;
Presume that they are dead.
This is a brown time here on this terrain,
There are devices planted just beneath the dirt.
Be quiet love; you are a secret bomb.
You are a spy, and a secret marksman:
When we see our target, we will uncover.
He will be too surprised to respond,
And then it will be time! I will open my mouth
And you will come out,
like a magician pulling handkerchiefs out of his sleeve,
All of the color of a butcher's floor,
You will unroll like an expensive rug,
And we will climb together
down everyone else's throat.
|
