Prescription Aforethought
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
It is as if he is an injured pulse
Inside a ghost, assuming that a ghost
Is more than vacuum. His veins convulse
Despair. He thinks he wants a pointed post
Hammered through his heart, or what passes for
That organ in his void. The shotgun by
His side remains impassive. Shell in drawer
Lies, waiting. It is not impassive, sly.
It’s there. That’s all. She will not care, or if
She does, so what? When others enter, late,
The first thing they will know will be a whiff
Of blood and brain. This barely has a weight.
Some splinters of the skull will be against
His bedroom wall. His calm will be dispensed.
~ Phillip Whidden