Printer Friendly

Crime and Punishment.

after Francis Bacon

 The night you died, I was alone and let the phone go
to voicemail. I ate from April's greening mouth,
O my sorrow. I did not know. No one knew. Who knows
why we were made in God's likeness but not liked by God.
At the prison art show, self-portraits by one of your killers.
He, the man weeping. He, the man caged. He, the matador
who caught the bulls' horns like a bouquet. He and I
had something in common after all. We beguile ourselves.
We dream of the same man after two glasses of moonshine.
Bacon said a portrait teaches us about the artist, in which case
I am your
 killer's seceding heart with a torn ventricle
for a flag. The oldest recording is not what I was told,
is not Edison shouting Mary Had a Little Lamb into tin.
It's a French folk singer ghosting Clair de Lune through
the scratching with news of moonlight. O, starless, hereditary
night offended by facts. Who wants to hear the dead?
It's the dying I'm after. It's transformation that I
Even if I can't paint a smile or discreet red, I can practice
my injuries in private. I place your body in a field. I place it
in a closed casket. I place it in a paragraph. An image wounds
in the wrong location. The horror of a carcass is the beauty
of a butcher shop. I place your body in bed, a fan stirring
the hairs on your chest. At the prison art show, it all came out--
the undisciplined sympathy, the undammed need
of the condemned to speak as oil, as ink, as your death
tattooed on a stranger's cheek. The object is not objective,
but I always find myself on my knees in front of it,
choosing between God and all those lovely golden calves.
The brush herds the lamb into my hands and subjects it
to mercy. My pleasures are not accidents. I revived
the brazen bull's metal torso with watercolor, big enough
for a man, the tube from the chest's hollow to the audience
who waits, lights the fire, listens as the man turning to meat
inside the fabricated body of a bull and his screams transform
into singing. This is what I am waiting for, for the state
to take my revenge for me. I held a candle at the vigil,
little thorn of fire threatening to obscure what the darkness
confirmed. Guilt, a gulf unbridged. Grief, the lair of stillness.
I want to see God's face, to lick the white of his eye, to order
him to die for me again. I want to dig up your body still clothed
in heaven and give you back to the world, give you back
as lightning, as the electric volt that rides through a man,
through the chair he's strapped to, his last words transcribed
for the record, known, remembered, unrightfully saved.

Traci Brim hall is the author of Saudade (Copper Canyon, 2017), Our Lady of the Ruins(W.W. Norton, 2012), and Rookery (Southern Illinois University Press, 2010). She's received a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship and is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Kansas State University.

COPYRIGHT 2018 World Poetry, Inc.
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2018 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Title Annotation:five poems
Author:Brimhall, Traci
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:May 1, 2018
Previous Article:Pastoral Before Decomposition.
Next Article:First Time on the Funicular.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2019 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters