J. S. Belote (5 Poems)

Five poems from J. S. Belote now up on Underfoot–

Underfoot Poetry

Boriska

Snowmelt mangles
gray potato fields,

oxcarts rot & sink
by dung heaps,

& month after month
the heaps rise—
 
I don’t care.

Again the sky is
opaque. &, still,

wizened, Andrei
goes on

painting icons. In one

he gives Christ a cloak
the color of earth.

He hangs it nonchalantly over
His left shoulder, & leaves from His face
any discernible look.

There’s not shame, or pity,
or anger there.

What is there, he would tell you,
is another world
this world is

redeemed by. Which means
suffering is
a disease of perspective.

Which is true, of course,
to an extent.

But I choose to keep my rage.

I choose to hate my father.

I can still see him there
on his deathbed.

The dark blood & puss.

The boils in his armpits
forcing him

to lie spreadeagled.

The hut reeked
of urine.

& what I begged him…

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