Spending Sunday Throwing Rocks at Policemen

by Jerrod E. Bohn

If poetry wasn’t yet invented & November excluded
all candidates, I’d lie with you reading
the book between your legs

while the cat flicks her tail to agitate dust
that once again settles in the scar
below your left eyelid when you said you ran from tear gas
but somehow do not cringe
when my voice is a bullhorn

proclaiming that today we will make love & die
just as children trample the tulips
worse than spring hail, rip out all clover
to find the good luck resting like a grasshopper

on the tip of a blade. Maybe you’re worn
from too much touch, your skin

has become propaganda directing all gazes
back to youth, a golden slipper
ideology from when dancing could actually move
the Earth, liquor bottles held letters
because their contents burned. We march on

your knees buckle inside my mouth
rubber bullets pelt windows & flash bombs
shake loose the foundations

like a blind singer displaced & exiled
your body takes the places of one last unread verse

the world occurs whenever, outside, a city street
intersects a line of sight
horizon is just a little death obstructing the view.

Jerrod E. Bohn, a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program, is the author of three full-length poetry books, Animal Histories (2017), Pulp: A Manifesto (2018), and Ventric(L)e (forthcoming 2023), all from Unsolicited Press. His poetry and nonfiction have appeared in numerous literary journals and other publications. Bohn currently lives in Seattle where he is a college professor and part-time writer for Bandbox Vinyl Record Club. Additionally, he runs Gravel: A Reading Series at a local brewery and enjoys cooking and being outdoors.