by Rick Viar
Porters unlash you after the desert, your breathing
a brittle, sweat-faded book you decide you’ll keep.
It is time to be forgiven for lies, absinthe, and hash
by the saw glinting above your fetid right knee.
What will become of the world when you leave?
The hyena stops laughing. The stars — a travesty.
Only the begged devil remains, gargling his red sand.
He who helped you fit the stretcher with a sail,
skin blistering dunes, sound the cold black puddle.
Not even the drunks at your grave mourn you as much.
About the Author:
Rick Viar earned a B.A. in Political Science at George Mason University and an M.A. in Comparative Literature at the University of South Carolina. He lives in Virginia where he somehow ended up in employee relations. He has a poem forthcoming in Roanoke Review.