The thief has stolen the water from under the village. He flees, holding it in his arms. The land is parched
As a hand gathers eggs from the nest, the rich have gathered all the earth. No bird opens its wing
The land idolator builds his house in our orchard. He’s in love with his passive solar, his bougainvillea
The CEO is fingering something in his pocket. C-notes in a money clip? A glock? A worry stone?
The tyrant, the buffoon, the egomaniac. The quantum state where the despot is all three
The thief of memory has erased my face. I ache. His blank indifference robs me of my history
Like rats to a hay field sycophants come and kneel before the king. Listen: a rustling in the sheaves
I take a pill to make loss go away. Someone appears in the mirror, swollen and asymmetrical
The thief of righteousness has planted his semen in my body. I do hard labor, bring forth a chimera
No one opens his mouth to speak. Out of this quiet, a thought neither quartered nor quelled |
Lee Sharkey is the author of Walking Backwards (Tupelo, 2016), Calendars of Fire, and nine earlier full-length poetry collections and chapbooks. Her poetry has appeared in Consequence, Crazyhorse, FIELD, Kenyon Review, Massachusetts Review, Nimrod, Solstice, and other journals. Her recognitions include the Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize, the Abraham Sutzkever Centennial Prize, and the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance’s Distinguished Achievement Award.
