by Mickey Clayton

Trees spread their grace
Across turgid river,
Reaching gnarled limbs
Towards cloud laden sky.
Even this verdant green,
Cannot cover
The windswept sands,
In my memory.
I stand on the banks
Of the Columbia,
And all I see,
Is the murky expanse
Of the Euphrates.
The choking dust,
And the stench,
Of blood,
Gun powder,
Diesel and burning shit,
That clings tenacious,
To my soul.
Women are supposed
To be the gentler sex,
My thumbs say otherwise,
Over the remembered chatter
Of my ma deuce.
All the water,
Between these banks,
Cannot quench
This remembered thirst.
These hands can only
Be cleansed
Of dirt.

Copyright © 2010 - Mickey Clayton
Published: 5/6/10   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem