Jesus, dying for yr sins by John Sweet


Here, in this good sunlight, end of summer,
the deaths of dreams, and I am waiting to see you
for the first time, and you are waiting to hear
whether or not the cancer has spread.

I am waiting for the moment to pass, for the
house to fall. Burnt Hill Road, buzz of cicadas,
still no word from my children. Three days now,
sober and tired, smell of honeysuckle. Sky too
big, too blue, overwhelming. The sudden approach
of whatever it is I’m trying to say. Definitions
of victory. Free the slaves to kill the Indians.
Blow up the churches in the name of God.

And you drive 3000 miles, but this shit follows
you. Owns you. The roof leaks in the corner of
the bedroom. The brakes are going on the car.
Money is truth. Money is a lie. Either way, you
need more. Either way, the phone doesn’t ring.

I wait to hear you tell me you love me. You want
to cum, but you don’t. The rope is too tight, the
moment is ruined. We sit in this room together,
and I miss you.

I consider the fact that I’ve never met you.

All of these sorry words
casting shadows in the afternoon sun.


©2019 John Sweet




John Sweet, b. 1968 and still numbered among the living, sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL (2018 Analog Submission Press) and BASTARD FAITH (2017 Scars Publications). All pertinent facts about his writing are buried in his life.


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.