Rick Telsrow
Brenda Jones Poem
I can offer no comfort
as those who embrace me tightly
kneel in the dirt. They feed
the earth with their tears,
as their soft skin touches
a rough, red world.
I choke with the bareness
of vibrant colors. The disguise
has worn off and there is
a rocky dusting on life
in the sun.
The computation stands before me
with no gap in its thickness. I wish
I had a tool, something made
of iron or steel,
that would help me carve
through the rock
and grab the rotting carcass
and throw it in the salt.
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