Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Wednesday, June 06, 2018

I’m arguing with Yevtushenko,
I’m justifying all my lies to my child,
I’m watching filthy black clouds floating
towards the beautiful full white moon,
I’m zipping my jacket against the cold,
I want to be poetic about the moon,
I'm saying there are light grey wisps
passing across its beautiful whiteness,
I'm saying it makes me think of a snow leopard
alone in the night. I’m afraid for my child
to know what Lorca knows.

You know how these things are,
you are a writer, a leaper from stone to stone,
a noticer of the grass blurring beneath you
as you sail through air, a noticer of the whiteness
of coffee cups, of the stream of loveliness
flowing through the coffeeshop doors
to meet their loves. You are here,
not meeting your love, you are there
on the hill, leaping from rocks, the same hill,
different rocks, different blades of grass blurring,
descending from the summit to the riverbed,
recalling the insistent wind, thinking
of our children and the truths
waiting for them that we cannot bear to mention.


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