Martyrdoms, Howie Good

1
Still anxious, lonely, unoriented two years after coming to America, my grandfather’s only brother, a barber by trade, killed himself by leaping off the 59th Street Bridge. “What would make someone leave all this?” the family would uselessly wonder. His body washed up just a block away. We are always somewhere.


2
What a sight it would be, me, with my heart plucked out of my body, still managing somehow to say, “It’s just 11 ounces, you morons,” before feral youth coldly scratch their names and affiliations all over it.


3
The town clock is frozen at half past, but no matter the true time, or where at this very moment we think we are, you, me, even people we don’t know, we’re all together in the same place, under the overhang of a sheltering tree. It’s what makes the dark so dark.

Howie Good is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Howie Good recommends “Early December in Croton-on-Hudson” by Louise Glück.

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