"Bench Clearing" by Marissa DeSantis

My dad died
and sports came back.
We wore masks at his funeral
to avoid being next, I guess.

The night before
Joe Kelly fired at Carlos Correa’s head
and cleared the bench
and I get it,
because what other response is there to feeling cheated
than bearing witness to your hate blossoming
from your body,
your spite-filled fingers gripping the splitting seams,
your hurtling release spitting seeds
that will line the graves
of generational grudges.

What song do you serve your ears
the morning after your mom sends you home
with a peace flower
and you say goodbye in the dark
because it hurts to see?

So King Push pummels my skull
as my jaw sits hollow and jagged,
a haggard quarry of heavy stones
and I stare at a cracked tree limb,
angled 90 degrees
in a non-committal breeze.

And a bird cries like a rusty swingset
and now I see the hurt
has just begun to bloom.

————————————–

Marissa DeSantis called us from Cleveland, OH.

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