Crushed

This entry is part 3 of 19 in the series Une Semaine de Bonté

 

Une Semaine de Bonté: page 3 collage
Une Semaine de Bonté: page 3

My first crush was a statue:
strong and silent, noble
to a fault. Realer

than the dead general
he memorialized, for his triumph
was far less fleeting.

He kept his chin up
no matter what, weathering
every pigeon. His head

was like a moon, blotchy
with seas. As for me,
I didn’t want to be seen

with my head of a beast
like an ass-backwards sphynx.
Small dogs assaulted

the space I’d left
intentionally absurd,
uniformed like a unisex fireplug,

gruff as a gryphon. I huffed
glue till my syntax collapsed
and I came unglued.

A war blew in and they drafted
my soldier, melted him down
and cast him into shot.

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