Stylistic Signatures for a 2×2 Card
Blue short-sleeve strutting
A blue leash for a dog on steroids-
Borrowed blue work gloves for polished
Grass push-ups, a barrier between the
Grass that scratches raw.
Burnt skin sizzling, count the blades
By the green patches, green then brown
Green then brown, green then—
Heel bone splinting concrete paths leading
To another wadding through a diagetic world.
And once again, it is eight am.
The bed door is open. The front door is open.
The gate is open. The leash and the dog
Are missing—
Sitting in an Indian styled pretzel formation,
She accidentally writes.
And once again, the dog leapt stair, by stair,
By stair, followed by a sharp corner to a
Closed door, Pavlovian spit dripping down
The wood paneling on the entrance into
A family home.
And for once, the windows were open.
The white morning sun on the white walls.
The white carpet, a white note, an apology—
I love you, a signature,
All followed promptly by a date
And a time, reeves of bright spring flowers
And two-by-two white cards—
Piously forgiving the typicality of being typical,
Harsh C-notes, the bountiful D-notes
Of sympathy gone wrong.
And once again, an apology, and an apology,
And an apology.
Saturday Evening
Half worn dress puckered
At the shoulders—her family
Glaring at the television,
Tipping heads to detergent jingles—
An open, flat hand through the
Hair—strike of a dry blade—
Her youngest brother is waiting
In the hallway, donning a superman
Sweat suit and sixty pounds of
Excess weight, he says that
If I could be anything, I would be
Strong, a hero.
He slides a comic book from under
A worn rug, splitting seams from
Foot pressure—he tears the coupons
And delicately covers holes in the
Floor to stop the roaches from eating
The remaining pages, he says that
I wouldn’t worry about death
Dying is just a quality of the air.
The dress nipping at a hidden tattoo,
A tribal something—she revealed true
Rebellion and stayed the night in a
Different bed—her brother, sitting in
The hallway, hugged paper—kissed the future.
Benjamin Sutton is currently living in Denver, trying to comprehend the constant changes in temperature. His poetry has been published in Writer’s Bloc, Calliope Nerve, and Word Catalyst, among others. More work is forthcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, The Stray Branch, and Ken Again. His first chapbook of poetry, Atom-Bomb Sunrise, was published last Fall by JK Publishing. He is currently working towards his MFA.
