Terese Svoboda

April 10, 2015 Svoboda Terese



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: Anhinga Press published Theatrix: Play Poems in March 2021.