By Richard Hamilton
on days I spent looking for man’s bronzed, ashy ankles.
In the dark, someplace to put my nose again. Godheads
don’t wrench meat from hallowed jaws, or worse, lace
the turkey stuffing. I had had sense enough to know
it wasn’t black or white. Red leaves fell about the matted
clump of his hair. Gnarled root, in the interim, the Apache
we surmised, had been summarily mowed down.
The brûlée of black koi, upturned sunflowers harangued
God.
Tagging the cavity war left with bright seeds, Lucifer sprayed
Ichiban, jockstraps, and leaven.
RICHARD HAMILTON (he/they) was born in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and raised in the American south. He is the author of Rest of US (Re-Center Press, 2021) and Discordant (Autumn House Press, 2023). Hamilton earned an MFA in Poetry from the University of Alabama. He presently holds the 2023–2025 post-doctoral creative writing fellowship at the Center for African American Poetry and Poetics at the University of Pittsburgh. They are a contributor in Issue 21 of the Stonecoast Literary Magazine.
This poem originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 21.
Photo by Nikhil Singh