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Image for the poem grenade

grenade



Chrysta Bell… ever heard her sing?

she wraps velvet ribbons, rippled waves, around a skinned
branch; I figure she lights it with a kiss that would burn my
lips. elder delta gods named it a torch song.

tall. cut like a glass figurine. hair the color of mocha leaves
on a rainy night. eyes that drip right outa their sockets, you
could lick those milky streams & poison yourself.

some broken-hearted desperado dropped quarters in the
juke & punched her number. she beat out a dreamy ballad
with the tiny silver hammers of her vocal chords, & before
the bugle solo, I was sunk deep in her vinyl irony.

I keep two shot glasses in front of me, one for my midnight
angel, on the lacy napkin that she likes. she always shows
up on nights like this, dances slow with me; keeps me up
late in my dirty thoughts.

…the nights were good when I held her, but the days were
full of trying: trying to hold down a job, trying to keep us
outa the gutter. she wanted a hero, I guess, like the battle
weary vet who goes belly down on the grenade to save his
buddies. I could never be that guy.

she walked a hard line with me till her love couldn’t hold up
under the weight of her tears, so I let her go. & her glass
never needs a refill.


so I drink & let the Doll on the box break my heart in her
remarkable dark. it’s the music of the night, the music of
the rain, & if it ain’t lonely enough,

I can pour my blues right outa the bottle…


(Artist unknown)



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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