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.


 

 

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