June 2008 / Volume Eight / Issue Two
John Sweet
the myth, reconsidered

your words are not visions from god
and mine are only bad jokes
and this is where we stand
beauty caught in the tar of remorse
and that money is blood
that your pills are all dull knives
and every priest a rapist
ask your sons
step into the vague blue light of
any october afternoon
and consider how many days you've
wasted waiting to be forgiven
consider how many miles you drove
to reach the burning house
your father drunk
or maybe only dead
and whatever the last thing he
said to you was
the ticking of his watch as he
lay dying in a hospital bed
the first plane without warning
tearing the north tower
wide open