3 Poems by Sean F. Munro (Spreading It On Valentines Day)


a drowning above water

there’s a crush of forgiveness in the wreath of rope around a throat
this ghost walks its own light back into flesh
his hands a swollen apology for wishing the river beat smooth
his eyes yellow with time and sunlight wilt a word spoken by his mind’s last electron
as reactive deathlight calibrates this real’s filter against rusted blood
the river of forgetfulness of hate of sorrow of lamentations of fire burned golden in the muddy bosom
lets the riverness of our bloodstream grow solid as the daylight moon
those who say drink a little poison before you die hear that last sense leave the body
the lightsome coin a bribe for the living toward the afterlife and the fastnesses of stagnant water
a wreath to trap one’s life in a circle to the ground as if tragedy is inherited by what we believe
as if this thirst brought him to choke the water from his own throat

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interpretation

that saint moon that watched all our grandmothers die that light we see that
some-say-light we hear through the mouth of others lost from the body inhaled of the air through skin
the curled saint cut from the sky brought to the night’s ground who gives a shit
about daylight in a world half-dark we fester and sour and rip away from form for twenty more years for
     more millennia
for more abstraction of unity and the movement of the body
     the eight knuckles forward into the saltwet sand
the hole dug deeper the blistered skin water at the bottom water blocks the way to china water
     on every deep dig then water
then the molten then the spun core where we become the center and burn

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the well going to the arms

here’s where we get to the real to the past to the seven foot levee of my grandfather’s paintings
      that held me from the ground
a walk on the broken pile to see which ones to save for the future
each step on oil and canvas stiff as glass shattered into infinite dust a dream of his paintings set free
past where we get to the real landscape of an artist seized in the grip of a palette knife
his breath in black bags cradled by the human capacity for putrefaction
past a pool of porcelain sunlight matted with mold
our bodies do not return to ash or dust that surrounds us
our bodies return as a wash through the lined light of the ground
past where we get to the future we find a place where light is every form of ancient voice
and its singing an organization of no sorrows no laments no proffered last breath of a dying mouth
its singing a holy no of real coiled into the real an over-human song descried in a dome
it’s not the human mind in the sinkwater it’s the arms of the deviled saint of each man wild to stamp the air with his hands

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Bio: Sean F. Munro writes, teaches, and listens in New Orleans. His poetry forthcomes. There’s a book growing.