I can be forgiven

In the spring poison grows under trees,
and takes many shapes,
imitating a vine,
or hiding in ground cover.

It can mimic the thorny raspberry,
or an adolescent oak.
It’s a joker; it’s a thief,
in three words – all things human.

Do not venture into the forests of the Ardennes,
after a long winter has erupted
into poison,
blood still colors creeks from the fields
where starving children foraged for trinkets from dead soldiers,
to sell for food.

Footprints I expect to find and I can be forgiven.

To Anthony Bourdain.

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6 thoughts on “I can be forgiven

  1. If he, if Tony felt the abyss trail its talons along his ribs, how can we, mere mortals, hope to endure? Yes, that’s right, we cannot. He merely speared the golden ring as a cheat. Damn you Anthony, my tastebuds damn you thrice.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. My initial response was also damn you. Then last night as I was itching to death from a painful encounter with poison oak and I was desperate to flee this body I understood – a different sort of poison. One that can’t be salved by alcohol or copious amounts of lotion.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Well, soon for all of us…too bad. I think he proves the point that to be authentically creative one walks along a very thin line. The line giveth and it taketh away. The line is our emotions and like somebody once said, it is all we have. Your poem is a fine example of creativity. It reminds me of Wilford Owen. Thanks. Duke

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thanks Duke. I spent sometime with my uncle’s mistress in the Alsace area (Bar le Duc) and she told me how as a child they hid out during the fighting and when it was finally quiet and they came out the creeks were red and the children would follow the streams up to the battlefields and take whatever they could off the corpses to sell for food. Never forgot the image.

      Liked by 2 people

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