How boys play

Cherry

By Jane Hyphen

Thu, 19 Sep 2024
  • 143 reads
4 comments
 

 

They roll over, rolling over

like little dogs,

and only for the worst one,

the most depraved, the wolf.

They follow blindly,

lining up to spit,

just where the others spat;

the foamy pond of their comrades.

Their tumid insides screaming, 

both for more and for the ending,

like the pirates of their story books

who tore their mother ship

upon the jagged rocks,

drowning among purple floods 

as they cooled their father’s fury

on ever more lightless depths,

gasping as the air ran out

and yearning the milk of forgiveness

from daughters who will never know

and mothers who distill their names

through the helplessness of their kind.

 

Certificate 12
Poem

Comments

Submitted by celticman on

a dying breed in some ways. 

 

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

We'll all be done breeding soon, too many horrors. Thank you for cherries.

 

Submitted by marandina on

"...the foamy pond of their comrades.

Their tumid insides screaming..." 

That's a deep introspection of how little boys are. Some wonderful lines, imagery and metaphor. Perhaps the most depraved is a wolf. Just maybe.

Enjoyed this, Jane.

 

Submitted by Jane Hyphen on

Thank you, Paul. Acting on their impulses until (most) learn impulse control and discover that the wolf is rotten.