Signal flares to delia . . . | Benjamin Bartu
Oh, delia. I am sorry for our nation. The subtext is clear. It will be eaten by the
blue habits of the law. My love will be outlived, love that is a transcontinental
manifesting letters, is you. I no longer capitalize your name. I am learning to
stay-at-home things. Until then, may the grass be communion wine, canned soft
the yoghurt & the oats. Say, what did you make of the grass? That which covered
in the love we unmade, and all the while the distant Catalonian trade ports
with our consumerism. As for Cuba, see cobalt and milk-making. Whatever you
industry has been there first. My finest sheepgrain, I will almost miss the garish
filibustered our country to its floorboards: you see it turned out the children really
just tiny pieces of pop culture packed full of marrow. Now the season, if we still
seasons, when the fountainheaded crow of myth calls; wetthroat caws out
backdoor. Only door. Let’s be clear, soldier to my heart: some wars we fought in
not getting. My Crusades, you called them, and every lowercase t became a cross,
something sacred became flesh. We turned one by one on our stomachs and did
the stonefish do in the flatwater. I said distinguish you from eden. You said rally
the flag. And out on the highway the nameless do what they will to the planet.
their hopes are Atlantean. Though their dream is American. It’s all a very sunny
I am not above a feeling of superiority to certain errors in this world. Once I felt
tenderness for them. Over years I learned that burns. My evening, chance
withstand this ending world. I kiss its lips for you.
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Benjamin Bartu is an epileptic poet and writer studying Human Rights at Columbia University. He is the winner of Blood Orange Review’s first annual poetry contest, judged by Jericho Brown. His writing has appeared in The Adroit Journal, The Esthetic Apostle, Cathexis Northwest Press, and elsewhere. He is an Associate Editor at Palette Poetry.