A Sonnet to my Scottish Forefathers
by Clayton Kincade
These are bones loose with liquor, divided in half
by the knife in my teeth, angry for penance:
They ache & hunger to escape the wrath:
We will not reach the heavens.
Your arm, wrapped on my shoulder, like slime
my Scottish forefathers from the East
never imagined more than a crime,
sour with the taste of fermented yeast:
If one ponders the small ways of making meaning—
filling up hollow guts with distilled rye—
they betray the social scene. Try dry cleaning
out the undeserving horse flies.
I hope that I’m held right before I die,
Someone, somewhere, the caretaker to sing me an old lullaby.