Westerns

The Westerns
always had us calling
the President 
“The Great White Father.”

All my dreams tonight
have been Westerns
but nobody called anybody
great, or white, or father.

My early evening Western
was of a snowglobe
being shaken close to my face.
Milky background, inside
brown bits like clods of earth
swirling, irregular sizes;
perhaps these were oil clots,
or the rotted organs of the dead,
but they were just out of focus 
and I was too afraid to squint
and make them clear.

My midnight Western:
nothing to see, my ears
filled with chanting: 
broken, broken, broken…
Did this mean the snowglobe
had broken,

or did the fact that this was
a different dream
mean the earlier one
had never happened?

The next dream, I think,
will be another Western.
Fear of it is keeping me awake.
I expect a great White father
waits there, shards of glass
in his hands, ready to embrace me,
to open me from groin to throat,
to fill a snowglobe with my grease and guts,
to ride with my pieces into the sunset;

Can’t imagine what could follow that one.
I’m certain it will make sense to someone.
All Westerns run together into one long story,
after all; I don’t expect I’ll be in the next chapter,
or that any of us will, in fact — not as we are,
not as we ever were. 

He was never our real father, you see. 

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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