Our Dear Lord, the Advantageous
Challenger 7 Memorial Park
This dark and dank cellar which houses shame
In the event of reverence
Our Dear Lord, the Advantageous
It is the inconsistent beat that leads
the mass of shapeless forms into the room;
Her wet eyes blur the light,
creating a bright rim of gold,
akin to a ring of fire,
around their edges.
On a world map of the Pacific,
the Neonatologist to the West
is where you would find the
wild ocean
crashing into the Asian coast.
A nurse is an island in the center
floating out at sea.
An older man, her father,
is to the North
making the hospital’s chaplain
in his black robe and white collar
near the East wall,
North America.
It is beginning to feel as though the weight
of the entire hospital
is being placed upon her trembling knees
as the West explains how
the cord,
which kept the baby alive in-utero,
has strangled the life from it
before birth.
The U.S./Canadian coast is talking to the ceiling
repeating something along the lines of:
——
“Oh, dear lord,
the advantageous,
what would it take for you to walk on water here today?
We promise not to look.
Skip across the surface,
one bank to another as a stone.
Halt at each new ripple,
perform your spectacles,
shake off the rust if need be but,
please,
don’t leave this little angel waiting too long.”
——
The island and Asian Empire
exchange words softly to one another,
while the Bering Strait comes into focus
near the back of the room
just as he begins to weep.
Shit from the dog park has
spilled over
to the green Astro-
Turf.
Screeching from an excavator
crashes
near the tree line to the
West.
The air conditioned public restrooms are
locked;
A young mother has to use a filthy Port-O-
Jon
under the scalding July sun while her
children
play upon the yellow and brown
epitaph
erected in your mem-
oriam
without ever learning your
names.
This dark and dank cellar which houses shame
For Emily
“1. Shards of glass displayed on highways
so voyeurs can witness
some near death experience
while bottle-necking.
2. Bring your daughter to work day
at the meat-production factory
after which father never looked clean
again.
3. The Sun’s pure light pours over
bloated bodies washed ashore,
eyes bulging, just the same
as you and I.”
Carved into the creases of my forehead.
My lips might never touch
again
With no wise tooth in my
head
My tongue becoming
white
the corners of my mouth crusting
dry
with yellow enamel displayed
before the world.
To move as though your
canines
are as Greek columns,
incisors,
grandly chiseled marble
David’s
Not these cracked lips which meet
to hide
The Berlin Wall, post war, ca. ‘92
A husband and father of three, Jefferson J.W. Wayne is an avid photographer, writer and reader of poetry as well as short stories. He has had prose featured in Mojave Heart Review, VampCatMag, and Pulp Poets Press. He has also had photography featured in Burning House Press.
