My Voice gets Black Quiet & I want to Fly
Jim BellI’m so tired
of these brown
patient
hills
sitting
over my
shoulder
like buddha
with bumps
laughing
&
no more corn
fields
no more pole
vault
no more
sad
irish eyes
wildly
whacking
at 1950’s
lookingfor a mother’s
face to touch
& love
& bring back
home
healed
soft
sobera father’s
rage
to bottle
& send
back
to his mother’s
buried ground& the sound
of your lovely
naked voice
leaves
me screaming
at the edge
of an ocean
I want to grow
old & die infrom: Crossing the Bar; poems by Jim Bell
Slate Roof Publishing, Northfield, MA ,2005
