By Griff Foxley
Under the jaw
And just above
Adam’s apple:
That’s where
The squirrels
Squabble together
In what may
Or may not
Be play
But sounds
Like the death rattle
Of a generation
Of flaccid men,
Scraping walls
Of all their creosote.
And then in the back,
Nape of the neck,
Where the downcast
Head forms the arch
That juts it lower
And off-plane with
The rest of the body:
That
Is where she mourns,
Mothers, wives, sisters,
Kali and her cousin,
The muse and her Gran,
All forever mourning
The ever not being met
And the ever not being seen
And even the ever not being stood up to
In a way
That shouts love.