The Song of Love by John Sweet

or something for all the murdered waitresses,
all the suicides and the missing ones,
all the kids they put up for adoption in the summer of ‘92

something for the streets that
end at graveyards

for the town that floods while we sleep and it’s
nice thinking i’ve escaped my past even
when the reality is always more complicated

it’s the last day of
whatever season my father died in

crows at the foot of every cross and
along the edges of the interstate and always the
shadows of collapsing barns

always blinding sunlight and the absence of heat

the names we forget and
the bodies we can’t seem to

the faces that are never happy to see us

voices that tell us to come in
but never anyone willing to offer us
something to stop the bleeding

john-sweet
john sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. an optimistic pessimist. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. Avoids zealots and social media whenever possible. His latest collections include A NATION OF ASSHOLES W/ GUNS (2015 Scars Publications) and APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.
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