the poet confesses

Editor back-issues, John Sweet, poetry

your child is dying
in some version of america
i never wanted to know

the poem slips into my blood
at five in the morning
without a sound

we were closer to
something beautiful at one point
i think

were alive in a different way
that couldn’t last
and my voice gets too loud here

my son is asleep in the next room
the kitten curled up on his pillow
and the edges of this day
have begun to drag themselves
out of the darkness

what i wanted
wasn’t to be someone else
but maybe someone
better

not a priest
but a conquistador

a phoenix

and i am tired of feeling
gravity’s pull and i am crawling

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