2 Poems by
Ron Fields
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Me, In All My Artfulness
I am a figment of your imagination.
You created me in those days when your
Daddy, with vodka coursing through his veins,
Would slam you into the wall. Smack your sassy mouth.
You told Jacob you'd never leave, and
You did, son of bitch that you are, and we
Lived on off-brand noodles while you ate
Filet mignon, our Mr. Cola was your chardonnay.
You traded trinkets for affection, screwing us over
Just like we screwed the Indians three hundred
Years ago. My moccasins are made by Nike, my
Soul forged by cheap labor in the third world.
I used to dream of your return. Laying awake at
Night, thinking you'd come back. When you did,
I had learned to sleep soundly, like that baby you left,
Quiet as if the world were new.
I can't begin to dream of nothingness, I can't
Fathom the blitzkrieg of your heart.
To leave us in the desert with a Polaroid--
I am tearing down the walls of innocence.
And I pray:
Thank you, father, for all that you've given me,
And blessed me. Thank you for my strife and
Suffering, my pain and injury. Thank you for
Helping make me that which I've become.
Late Summer
It felt like
fall
when the buildings
fell,
watching Dan Rather
talk
and making me
feel
only slightly better.
I caught a
cold,
shivering in the
morning,
having stepped from
shower,
drenched in purest
water;
shivering and cold.
I could smell
change
in the air,
subtle
shifts in humidity,
static
electricity around me,
skies
grayer than yesterday.
And when Tom Brokaw told me about
the planes, and the buildings, and
the pentagon, and a guy named Osama,
and twenty thousand dead, and
six thousand more body bags,
I knew that we had lost our innocence,
And that the viper of winter had struck.
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