“Untitled” by Rose Mary Boehm (Peru, b. Germany) c1980s
I start to think you stink
like Beowulf.
Strong, spattered with sugar or salt or death.
The fault of your lust and disgust for even the
accolade of king–
climate change indeed,
clambered, clamored, and enamored you
to no one.
I dreamt we hoped then saw no hope-no feet
attached to spindly old-man legs.
Can’t fly away, can’t take none of it for granted.
But you planted your bastard son, the gold
dragon of a plantation.
I decide desire, destiny drawings dropped
kiss, soft as a feathered angel’s wings a’ flutter.
Brave, guarded, glance, grin.
I wish we’d died,
grinning sightless eyes.
Be it Beowulf or Grendel, Anglo-Saxon drawn
disassembled. Anaphora resolution,
resolute. A disgusting hero’s revolution.
It is a bird.
It is a man.
Norman warrior or
warbler.
Published in The Blue Mountain Review, September 2022
