Judith Skillman
Sisyphus, My Dead Brother—
Rise from the rock face, peach and umber
all abstract-like, you fell from such height
as would boggle the gov’t, get up
and show me the six pack, the tattooed arms
of that god I worshipped like an idol
back when we played horse in the living room,
your slender pre-adolescent body
bent over mired in imaginary manure.
I’ll count to three and then, you know the drill.
It’s day outside the sun over the Patuxent
etc., a black and white photograph
the daughter of some friend of my sister
took at her new job as environmental
something or other as if the earth
were fit to live. C’mon old pal, summon
the pathos required to jig the ethos
out of its bloody grip. Neo-Nazis
like this painting of your demi-godness,
let’s make lemonade out of remember
that old yellow cad we used to wield
on a filbert? If a pig lost its life
to a flat still the pug tail could grope
around on some blank canvas till shape
came into play, damn it bastard son
of my astronomer father, beat up
that dead horse made out of leather.
Exo-planets huger than Jupiter
once found by your telescope, how phallic.
—Submitted on 06/05/2020
Judith Skillman is the author of The Truth About Our American Births (Shanti Arts, 2020) and Broken Lines: The Art & Craft of Poetry (Lummox Press, 2013). A recipient of awards from the Academy of American Poets and Artist Trust, Skillman lives and works in Seattle, Wash. Online at judithskillman.com.
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