Faulkner Wrote Me

Chapter 1

Believe it,
Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.
Not Aikel – ugly writer boy,
Weakling and winner of one essay,
Who rocks quietly in the dark,
But the golden duo – Ukiah, and Lemai,
Fetching.
Lovers of new wine,
Slaughterers of swine,
betters of Aikel.
Dandelion-haired in the sun.
Their whoring mother laughs in the fire through bastard fangs.
By them, bleach-haired sheilas become mothers by sunrise.

Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.
These days I beg for rotten news.
This one dream, a death in the market square.
The villagers dragging freshly dead Ukiah by an ankle. Excellent.
Shortly after, dead Lemai up the mud hill to Rowan Oak. Fantastic.
Jesus be praised.

Faulkner woke me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.
I am weak, they return alive, evenings, with market spoils,
I sicken with murderous expectations.
My hair thins with conspiracies.
My dreams, a waste of sleep.

Chapter 2

Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.
Wee dawn morning in August, they start a backyard brawl.
I twist in a singing bed.
Hopeful that only one returns,
That silent one – holder of my face, winner of one essay.
That I may find gentle repose in a simpler son.

Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.
But my Aikel flees to the backwoods ruined
An excellent brother assassin he is not.
Behind, blood-chest Lemai follows,
I pull at white conspiracy hair from the scalp.
He strikes my good Aikel down.
Agile heel meets soft essayist chin.
Large-fist Ukiah follows, dead in my dream, he lives for real.
Spitting blood and phosphorus.
Aikel is but a weakling and winner of one essay.
He has offered his finest best.
I hear his lungs rest.
So I awake to do it for Faulkner.
A single iron shaft skewers them both to the hedge, dying Aikel afoot.
His dying eyes question a disciple of Faulkner.

Chapter 3

Lucky Aikel – ugly writer boy,
Weakling and winner of one essay,
He rocks quietly in the dark,
For days I cry gore with the villagers in the smarting red mud.
Where art thou oh Lord of Israel? We ask them skies.
Why not take me instead, you magnificent brute?

Boys missing for days.
The villagers try, they try.
And the quiet becomes kindly,
The floor cools the heel,
Black ants steal from me,
Boy rock in the dark,
Quaking buttocks dance to the stream,
Grass sprouts in the mud wall.

Still, Faulkner writes me,
He asks for the head of my son.
And the dawn is well-timed.

Image: Christian Wærsten | Coffins | https://www.flickr.com/photos/fotophinish/8244333841

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