Open the gate to a nighttime party
Good trouble for bad actors.
Fire in a barrel at the garden party
A delta of floodlight out of the black.
Alpha male at the office party. A good man™.
Blood on the dress. Blood. Blood on a dress.
Open the gate. Our need hangs from the canticle
By the spittle of faith who decided the saviour
Would sit on our crowns a weight a stricture and we
Burdened yet kneeling for him we laden adoring him
A good man. We were once told that to tear holes
In the fabric which upholds us was death
We were told only darkness and depth lay below
Only sharp rocks we were told. The stories
Compound. Parking the car at the child’s party.
The child looking crying. Blood on her elbow.
People watching. It’s a scratch a bleeding it bled
Not a bit a lot. Feel dirty in a dress
With blood on it. Someone: the trees are always
Moving over the coins of Judas.
Maybe he was a good man maybe
We are out of the benefit of doubt.
This poem first appeared in The Lifted Brow #38. Get your copy here.
Sumusu Samarawickrama writes. Her work has appeared in Overland and The Boston Review; was shortlisted for 2017's JWPP. She is part of FCAC's West Writer's Group. @olaf78