A Book I Can Put Down

I’m halfway through
and I’ve gotten used
to the way it wants
to be read. This writer
wants to spoon it up,
wants to watch me
swallow it. This writer
makes a point of good
deeds, clean living,
god and country,
when what I want
is sin and shame,
the rusty metal edge
of cruelty, varieties
of pain, his mother
still crying years later,
just like mine. I want
a writer who’s given up
on the moral of the story,
one who’ll hand me
a knife and sit back
to see what I do with it.

(Published in Anderbo)

Antonia Clark

Mots clés poem

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