Suburban Janjaweed

 

The little pieces break off first | and fall | leaves from

the maples | sifted flakes of snow | a light cover of

dandruff on the shoulders | black turtleneck | his laugh

sweet and hoary | canescent | suffused with vermouth

The dogs shamble in | a shadow of cloud crossing the earth

conforming to the shape of the landscape | When he turns

his head  | all that remains of the dogs is a coiled rug

the color of earth | brown, beige, grey | His SUV is steel

grey, glinting | a half-tensed muscle erased by folds

of white cotton | the texture of the sleeves | buckled at

the wrists | Assault and pepper her with questions

is his only motto | a word thrown too hard moves through

His barren neighborhood in winter | bicycle on its side

the hardening mud | flecks of birds against cloud cover

Only at night are there games | Good cock, bad cock

The one where he stands on the bed and announces its name

*Inspiration by Terpsichore* | He dances within her

everybody dances at night | The cold seeps in through

the ruffles of the curtains, and under | Every time he takes it

he gives something back | In the morning there is no alarm

 

 

 

© Geof Huth

From "The're." Unpublished.