Terese Svoboda

DEATH MARCH
April 10, 2015 Svoboda Terese

DEATH MARCH

 

Carry her the way it has to hurt:
arms outstretched, tears caught.

Shrimp-curled, she weighs a shell’s worth.
Worse, no nurse lurks.

The flag’s furled in every way—
she whispers Go Away.

Reality singes.
A Cortez

she made you, no piker—
at every conquest, anger

you needed to guy
yourself to her bedside.

Muscles, pectoral or invented, signal
terror—you can’t put her down. Moral

imperative, that of social stigma
probably Darwinian, militia-

ready, beats its chest. The gods are plural
and cruel. You won’t weep at her funeral.

You wait, the dark doesn’t, it presses down.
You can’t possibly walk. Then it’s dawn.

Terese Svoboda’s most recent book of poetry is Professor Harriman’s Steam Air-Ship (Eyewear, 2016). The Maine in Spain, a chapbook, is forthcoming in 2018 from Island Verse.