Lost, No Reward by Mark S. Borczon

The unfolded Barlow knife
Lost in the pond
Becomes a severed finger
That is not counted on
When reckoning time
On this earth

It becomes a grey fish
All bones and rough scales
Riding the current
In the deep middle
Of a running stream
Feeding on nothing but
Duck feathers and
Bubbles full of air

It becomes a tattered flannel shirt
Wrapped around a litter
Of dead kittens buried
In the garden behind a house
In a hole dug by
A seven year old boy

It becomes a loaded rifle
Rusting on the wall
Of a chicken coup
There since spring
When the wild cat
Woke early and took all
The birds leaving behind only
Their blood and feet

It becomes the moon
Presiding over a killing frost
As full and white
As each grape
Dying on the vine

It becomes the tongue
Of a song bird caught in a
Spider’s web quivering
In silent fear

It become ash from the
Crematorium falling
Like snow
Sticking to
A little girl’s hair

It becomes the scar
That is implicit in
The knife given
To a boy who is
Too young
To hold one

Mark S. Borczon is a poet living in Erie, Pa. He has published widely in the small press but not in the last few years. He works for Edinboro Iniversity in the office of disabled students. He is the father of 3 amazing daughters.


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