Murder

You scold me like a statue.

Erect silence, you know it kills me.

You’ve accomplished nothing to be so

cold. This reminds me

of a bold Washington pose somewhere near White Marsh,

off the tangle of new roads,

the bust of God moulding in the forest

the same as a stone bench .They’re everywhere

in the old parts of town. You said an outhouse

had been torn down on the estate, how sad you said,

but you grew up here so you can be sad.

Fort Washington, where we get off the turnpike,

no fort, just a Holiday Inn where you used to drink

before you should have been drinking,

a one-eyed pregnant girl in a story I’m glad you told me.

It is true, I killed a raccoon once,

back in the deep, wet hills of southern Indiana,

no dead presidents, no turnpikes, just a couple of

young Gods drunk on mercy.