by Chris Litsey
My outlines were drawn in with horse hooves
And fleur-de-lis stabbings, tinging the lines
With a ruddy, rusty coloring that reminds me
Of my blurred, wavy reflection of the wide,
Wild river I called home, but the effects
Of the Commonwealth never seeped past
The bold lines that could be made out
From farther north.
How much of my life is measured in
Habitation? What blood do I shed into the
Soil? I gave a third to the Commonwealth,
But northern lands have demanded a
A larger percentage, and I can’t see myself
Drip-dropping more of my soul into the Ohio.
I wonder when there will be more of me
Rushing to the shores of far-flung deltas
Than in my dampened spirits.
Now, my colors will be golden and green,
Soy-stained and oil-slicked,
And misery
In the streams and tree
Tops soaked with pollution and
Dead to fire.
Dead to look at.
Dead on arrival.
Dead upon departure.
Shaded in hues of death.
Taste a vibrance on my skin.
Feel the color of our sin.
Oh, home,
Far away, wasting down by
The edge of the hostile waters,
Where the only thing not drowned in the mire
Is death.
So send my regards to the Commonwealth,
A tip of the cap, and watch another lap
Of the rushing horses, racing for things
They can never understand
(Oh, how like us they truly are).
Sip some amber liquid,
It’ll burn like Hell,
Only complimented by the lingering
Atmosphere of smog and bluegrass trimmings.
All set, blinded, set to run in asinine gestures
The horns sound, gates drop.
Gallop on. Gallop on. Gallop on–
Sunset on the bits combined,
Fused in refuse on the river of death.
Look how the light hits the slick.
Like a rainbow set to die after viewing.
Each passing car along the bridges should
Slow, just like we all do for funerals.
Every bit of me flows into demise
In that watery boundary,
The only populace since we robbed
Water of air and drowned all the fish.
The colorful bits of me that fall apart each day
Can be the new lurkers, hiding in the deep
Rush, coloring bleak all the reaches of
What was once a simple
Man of the Commonwealth.