Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

Homeward

Hell, I’m going to bleed
all the way back home
and my sister is going to drive us
by the empty lot
where I hung out my window
and handed down a Hendrix CD
to a Wash. U. kid
who’d picked me up on a deserted
West County road
in the middle of the night after
I’d been kicked out of a party
for crying over an INXS song.

I mean, there’s just no time.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the arch.
I’m all fried and freaked out,
forlorn, something’s
terribly wrong with my perception
as I pick up on Sartre with my unstopped ear
and tangle with the concurrency
of Cupid and Lesbia and Christ
and my blood is so real it’s there
but I think
it might have stopped moving
but I can’t meet with my doctor in person
so I’m telling myself I’m a new creation and
I’ve come out the other side, I’m homeward bound.

 
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