Ben Schwabe / Guns, Guns, and Guns

What of those behind?

Me wondering above the cracked sandy golds

Oranges to salmons

Rust poured out in irregular bands across great breaks in the terrain

So many bronze spines pushing themselves up

—out against the red skin, tattooed and torn

pockmarked and bleeding.

Bleeding slowly into rough greens and browns.

Bordered by that patchwork quilt

Drawn up over middle America

– lulled to sleep by the nuptial winds

the domestic braying

What of those behind, and do they know I’ve gone?

They – still sleeping in the nation’s heart –

Who gave so much of their blood.

And I who took so much without thanks

Drank and departed

Carried off my cat

To the yawning mouth of the nation

The city of blood-shot eyes and low-cut shirts

Do they feel my attention turn towards them?

– my eyes begging for their visage?

And you, my love

You – who joined me in turning so many leaves to ash

– those swinging windows giving passage to frost’s fingers above —

knew those fears, all too frequent ruminations

given a taste of my blood

23 flavors

I might say, “ If I’m only a drop in the sea,

And you of the same chemistry—

If the sea is a whole, not a collection of beads—

then you can’t escape me.”

Ben Schwabe/Guns, Guns, and Guns