Forrest Hamer


Some of us have to live with being mean. One means well, but ends up hurting some other who has no real interest in imagination. Someone I know is confused by everyday niceness, it makes no sense to him, and this perplexes us more than the sense he is shouldering horrors many would say are not his.

In a flicker of a lash, somebody becomes greedy with murder and he can't not think of it, even when he considers calm, even when he wants only to drown in some body's water. He walks until he finds strange streets, dares himself to stop every few feet, see if the panic has let up. He doesn't think he is possessed the way his cousin believes, and he doesn't believe much else.

This is never easy to say. They were so different, the other ones, we didn't know what to make of it. But when the ground within us started to give, we held only on to each other the best way we could, surprising ourselves with that love.

EPR #5:
someone I know: #10, #20

© 2003 Electronic Poetry Review