Steven Rood © 2003 All Rights Reserved
This Cocoa Tree Bower, My Prison
Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With joy the lively joys we cannot share. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Everything I do is bad and wrong and smells like fish.
Oh sweet Latitia, come back to me, now
that I’m fat and old. Wrap me in the Afghan of your arms
and tell me stories. I’m too sad to clean my toilet,
you must do this for me. I see spots behind my eyes
and open them to the stars. Latitia, something in my pancreas
is killing me. Bring me cookies, the kind you can only get at Christmas,
with colored sugar that looks like salt.
We’ll dip them in milk until they grow soft –
Latitia, all my teeth are gone. I gave them to a man
from Pennsylvania, but my sweet Latitia, it wasn’t love.
C.L. Bledsoe is an MFA playwright candidate at the University of Arkansas. He has poems published or forthcoming in Nimrod, Story South, and 2 River View, among other places. He grew up on a catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, and now lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas where trees sprout like Starbucks.
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