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 Thomas Bernell'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.
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