On The Rocks
“On The Rocks”
water freezes at 32°F
the only time we were allowed indoors during recess
when it gets too cold, hide inside
///
Don’t answer the door–
grifters are knocking, shilling freedom
on the rocks. You watch through the peephole
as they peddle their faulty merchandise, guzzling
their own free samples in a noisy, nauseating swallow
high off self-appointed importance.
They keep banging on the door
won’t take no for an answer, like a man at the bar
who keeps roofies in his pocket for occasions just like this—
emergencies. And just like the man who slides another beer to an unsuspecting woman,
the intruders at your door pour themselves another drink from their own supply
filled to the brim with delusions
feeding into a collective, single-minded ego, possessing
their resolve to break down your door, splintering it to pieces
before they point their hawked freedom to your head
and pull the trigger.
This ignites a fire in their chest. All the while, they hear
a child’s anguished cry, a mother’s desperate plea
a shopowner’s righteous anger, a protestor’s demand for justice
and their brains swell with manufactured power, like a blood rush of record-breaking speed
boiling through their skulls and burning out their eyes
permeating the air with the smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh
a warning siren so ear-splitting it announces their impending arrival
long before the sound of their boots, pounding on pavement and marching mechanically,
reverberate through the bones beneath the sidewalks.
Kidnapping Killing Klan
with blood on their hands, in their eyes, in their nostrils, in their ears, in their mouths
licking it up like open wounds, self-inflicted
personal grooming, lonely lives
down the bottle, refill
reload, aim, shoot–
///
water freezes at 32°F
the neighborhood pond solidifies atop the surface
we forget to tiptoe, driven by adrenaline, we run across
snowboots crack into the water, body plummets into frigid suspension
ice shatters like a broken mirror,
seven years of bad luck— less than two presidential terms
but the damage will last lifetimes
WRITTEN BY
Mary
I was a very shy kid, so I found my solace in writing, where I could say whatever I wanted to a blank page. This hobby turned into a passion, which turned into a lifeline, which is (hopefully) turning into a career! I am mostly inspired by poetic lyrics in songs I repeatedly listen to, descriptive language in novels I cannot put down, and scenes from movies or television that just won't stop playing in my head.
