Aching Words

I don't expect much from my poem,
no great rescue, no salvation, no scree--
footed redemption that stumbles down,
knocking me on my ass, leaving me
staring dumb-headed into the empty sky
and looking into clouds for God's
winking eye.

I don't expect much more than words
that link together a catena of aches--
arthritis of my old man's bones
and angst inherited from my mother
that wanders even past the grave,
ever still-born dreams that lay dead
upon the chicken house floor, buried
by manure of the thousand-fold chicken herd.

I don't expect much more than to say
what I've tried to say before my tongue
was swollen by a guilt-tied throat,
shamed into silence that evaded the bandage
and pussed out around the boundaries
of polite gauze strips that shocked me
into writing a poem.

Feb. 8, 2013

(This poem is taken from an on-going exercise of writing one poem per morning.)