This boy the turkey

He sweated the others
out from his bones there swollen
with a pregnancy of strangers.
A family in there, mice or cats,
pounds of it nonetheless
in a heap of marrow long in the hour,
as such longer than his femur.
It even is a sage, familiar as he cowers:
cough and spurt the lonely hurt
or writhe and ache the sleepless hurt
or gag and weep the friendly hurt
who talks kindly, as it should,
never busy, has always time for him
when it blisters through its whim
& starves his burden slim. For what
else swallows such blame
without huffing or like he did
leaping through the window-panes?


Get it? Turkey?


~ by Jeremy on July 13, 2010.

One Response to “This boy the turkey”

  1. My god, I’m in love with your poetry. A pregnancy of stranger? You come up with some of the most intensely creative lines I’ve read in a long, long time.

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