Faulkner Wrote Me

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 through bastard fangs in her psyche paradise.
And by them, fire-haired sheilas become mothers by sunrise.

Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.

I beg now for rotten news,
A death in the market square.
Excellent.
And the village dragging freshly dead Ukiah.
Fantastic.
And shortly after, dead Lemai up the mud hill to Rowan Oak.
Jesus be praised.

Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.

I am weak, they return alive, evenings, with market spoils,
I sicken with murderous expecting.
My white hair thins with conspiracies.

Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the heads of my sons.

One August, they start a backyard war in the wee of dawn.
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.

Then Aikel flees homewards ruined – an excellent brother assassin he is not.
But blood-chest Lemai follows,
I pull white conspiracy hair from the scalp.
He strikes good Aikel down.
Agile feet meets soft essayist chin.
Large-fist Ukiah follows, he lives too.
Spitting blood and phosphorus.
Aikel is but a weakling and winner of one essay.
He has offered his finest best.
So I awake to do it for Faulkner.
A single iron shaft skewers them both to the hedge, dying Aikel afoot.
Dying eyes question a disciple of Faulkner,
And the dawn is well-timed.

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

Boys missing for days.
And the quiet becomes kindly,
The floor cools the heel,
Black ants steal from me,
Girls own quaking buttocks dancing to the stream,
And wallflowers sprout in the parlour wall.

Still, Faulkner wrote me,
He asked for the head of my son.

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

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