Rites of Passage
The skylark at the window singing
shot with a pump style pellet gun spent,
still sings in spots of grey and
luminescent breast of gold on
the ground beneath its perch.
And a little boy’s contrition wells.
The crying of a trigger-finger facade—
Aged by a handful’s years
and dead now in a trident’s tine.
The singing plays upon the ears,
the trickery of time’s passing and how it makes
plain the differences never understood.
Wings flap, the bird turns circlets;
macabre snow angels in the dirt.
A tear again and a pump of the gun.
Joseph M. Gant is a poet trying to breathe in a punch card world. The most interesting thing he has to talk about is his degree in Scientific Glassblowing. But don’t ask him what a scientific glassblower does— he’ll charge you a nickel; it’s how he pays for pens. He resides outside of Philadelphia where he edits poetry for Sex and Murder Magazine. His first full-length collection of poetry is being released through Rebel Satori Press in summer of 2010.
