Sam Witt


Sunday Morning Waking Up: On the 3,926

“I hope that fucker chokes on blood,” I said
of the President’s face, or some such rag, which appeared,
bent at the fold, to be crying on my bedside. Nightmare,
full of syringes; sheets on fire; a boy asleep in bed.
Arms tingling, as if they’d been drained of blood.
The taste of it woke me into a moonlit, upward stare.
Get up, open the fridge, can’t face the food in there.
Hid my eyes from the sound of water in my head.

Turn on the faucet, kneel, whisper to the stream.
Not his best LBJ, the light, nor the styrofoam trays
holding fluid and meat, can face this food.
Whisper to the water that runs, after bad dreams:
it didn’t whisper back: one thousand one. The faces,
count them. There, in moonlight: whisper to the blood.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review