Killing Our Gods

No more hands twisting, grasping, or setting 

gently, nor slumped peonies as metaphors 


for drunkenness. No brothers dying high 

watching Law and Order and no more 

mothers, either. No more mothers shuffling 


over stone, asking if I want 

to touch what is killing them. No more deadly


tumors, no, no squamous cell 

carcinoma, no beautiful 

sick-sounding words. 


No more sand swallowing ankles, no ocean’s 

gurgling foam and froth, no moon 


spitting silver everywhere. No reflection walking 

towards you as you walk towards it

nor walking away when it’s had


enough. No, I don’t know. 

No, I’m not ready to be loved again.



Matthew Church


Matthew Church's work has appeared or is forthcoming in New Ohio Review, The Pinch, HAD, and elsewhere. Recently, he was longlisted for Frontier's Emerging Voices award. He's a big fan of the slam dunk. You can find him on the site formerly known as Twitter @ImmanentFlux. This poem is dedicated to his late mother and brother.