By John Leonard
Bullwhip anger,
the gravitational pull of
tender veins.
Steel-purple,
like an iris of dawn as I watch
you vanish.
Constellations and lovelessness,
carved like runes in the pulse of your
neck.
Draw the Lord’s face in angel dust.
Your faith, buried in a hotel nightstand.
No conscience
left to devour, no alarms when the river
grows teeth and the hallways bend
into a pink, grinning ear.
The rot of your kidneys burning away
that last inhale of atmosphere
before the red flames
of a rogue star
lick your wounds
clean.
About the Author:
John T. Leonard is a writer and educator who serves as editor-in-chief of Rawhead and managing editor of 42 Miles Press and The Glacier. He holds an M.A. in English from Indiana University. John’s poems have been published in Chiron Review, December Magazine, North Dakota Review, Ethel Zine, Louisiana Literature, South Florida Poetry Journal, Jelly Bucket, Painted Bride Quarterly, Tipton Poetry Journal, Sheila-Na-Gig, Hole in The Head Review, Nimrod International Journal, The Indianapolis Review, and The Emerson Review, among many others.