As In A Mirror Dimly

A memory of pastel
tears of ruined
Easters I remember
grit
from key-lime linoleum reuniting,
indifferently,
with my cheek.
I remember bitterness,
insoluble,
always up
for another.

Blazing jerseys
in perpetual battle,
deferring suicide
one goal
at a time.
A dumb blonde
joke is forced
back to life.
Laughing, gasping, tears
a sob–
laughing,
laughing.

What you can’t see
is the crippling fear
locking everyone in place,
like tumblers
in a padlock, terrified
of finding a key.  Am I

the young man,
who knows
he’s the cougar’s
revenge-fuck?  Or
am I the old man,
suffocating
under alimony and child

support?  Is he the same
little boy, crying
over a ruined basket?
Who prayed
for His death?

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

Posted in Poetry