Cutfinger

The moon’s red-faced hymen is crestfallen;

eclipsed by a trilogy of cloven sol kisses.

 

Our universe is not one.

 

Mechanical bulls are wrangling in ‘The House

of the Rising Sun.’ The sorority girls are all bowlegged

from bar shopping their reversible jeans. Their frat

boys left snipe hunting for lost birds of paradise.

 

‘Where have all their trappings gone—

long time passing?’

 

‘Stoned People’ are awakening in their old sweat lodges—

changing cubic zirconia cornerstones into granite ballast

rocks and new altar tops.

 

Near Nowata, Oklahoma, a shaman rolls the tombstone

blocking Cutfinger Cave over maggots passing through

on a sacrificial cat—

and the spirit of Chief Pokegon wanders.

 

 by Kevin Heaton

 

Kevin Heaton is originally from Kansas and Oklahoma, and now lives and writes in South Carolina. His work has appeared in a number of publications including: Guernica, Raleigh Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Vinyl Poetry, The Adroit Journal, and Mixed Fruit. He is a Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee.