Sam Cross

No one will find you

in 1861, sunken into your leather

entanglement, finished in grease,

undressed before an audience

of ageless insects, fizzing

around your one stillborn eye,

no one will know you were an average

golfer, you swore under your breath

learning about your daughter, you alone

lost the war, you never had

a stranger cinch your necktie

under tails of Spanish moss, you were bewitched

by the promise alive in a shotgun,

young once, you found foreign gods

cleaning up like cats on your front steps,

you refused to take in the sun

with them, as it came trembling up

from the trees, a perfect termite, gorging

on their darkness, in the elastic hours left to yourself,

you could not draw the poison out

of your pupil, it became essential to you

at even the cellular level, you found trust

impossible, every virus possessed by its own

sacred helix, judgement coming in the purest chemical,

physical and electrical terms, what do you imagine

might be made of you by an empty stomach, you

who have left so little inside, keeping the gate

of your own cage as though it opened to a heaven

no one deserved, no one will walk away from you

without thinking of the stars you have crossed and left

dimmer, seeing you, no one will be able to identify

just who else has ever belonged there,

by your side, at a loss