by Mark Yakich
The mosquito in the room buzzes.
It is Berryman without a tranquilizer.
The poet’s quarrel with himself
Turned out to be a battle with a god
Gone to seed. I, too, feel
The moron. No more sobbing
On the top stair. No more delirious
Laughter when the dive
Doesn’t happen. Kingdom come
Is here for this delicate bug and I
Shall smash it in order to have
Someone else’s blood on my hands.
They say that to walk
In another’s shoes first requires
They are wearing shoes.
They was probably a cobbler.
Life is and is and is suddenly
No joke. The Bhagavad Gita says,
Do a thing not seeking its fruit.
Does that mean I should
Lick my fingers or simply
Wipe the blood away?
About the Author:
Mark Yakich‘s next poetry collection, Spiritual Exercises, will be published by Penguin in July. He lives in New Orleans.