Published Monthly

View the rest of the poems from John Sweet in the April 2006 edition:

the theory of approximate gestures
by John Sweet

sick with joy and fear and growing fat on
the idea that we were never loved and
this is just a pool of stagnant water and
these are only two tiny hands
reaching up out of it

this is not the weight of sorrow
these are cinder blocks tied to broken ankles

the boy is only two is someone’s son
and he has been murdered by his father
he has been murdered by his mother and so
none of our theories about god
really matter

none of our prayers will bring him back

and this is a promise and it’s a threat
and if i were the president it
would sound like a lie

if it were my own son
you would call me a prophet

you would give me wings of clay and a
cross of rotting wood and when i asked for
nails you would put out my eyes

this is the fate of the chosen

this is the future of orphaned children

they can only grow up to
destroy what they love

John Sweet currently lives in the wastelands of upstate New York. He is affiliated with no schools of poetry, no organized religions, and no political parties. He is a believer in writing as catharsis and in playing the music as loud as is humanly possible up until the point when the neighbors call the police. A full length collection, Human Cathedrals, is available from Ravenna Press.



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