CL Bledsoe


Asshole Tax

I smeared rice on my cheeks. I laid 
in the sky and tried to dissolve
but the ducks kept sending me out 
for snacks. No one aches like I ache, 
which is to say fat and unkempt as 
Robert Smith’s sock drawer. You 
don’t get to look at me. You don’t get 
to have me in your life anymore. 
Call it an asshole tax. Even tornados 
have to pay to get on the expressway. 
Call me in the middle of the night to
tell me how lonely you are so I can tell 
my friends. They all hate you. I don’t
like who I’m becoming after you, but
I’ll stay him a little while longer. 
You’re about to screw around and get
your ass beat by a pillow. But what do I
know about anything? You’re tall
and lovely, stylish as the grave. I’ll never
love again, not you, anyway. 



Tiger Lily

The turtle’s shell blooms a tiger lily,
swaying in the light breeze as he 

crawls. Sand scooped aside in the shape
of your heart, obscured as he moves

across its face. Will you ever remember
his name or just the taste 

of sex in the air, the splash of orange
across your drab. Nothing lies lighter

than the dead who’ve finally gotten
to rest. It’s the struggling body 

that creates gravity. The force of longing
bouncing against trauma. You will never

know beauty when all you see is your
own face’s fraught past.



Crackers

This world can only be cleansed with fire. Or
a liberally shared cheese plate. How can crackers
be both the problem and solution? No matter how
right you are, the emptiness will never leave. 
It brought its own pillow and would like bottled
water with ice. I’m trying to think up a way
to survive. Something to do with sleeping forever
or never sleeping again. Rubbing the void’s feet
and bringing it a sandwich. It’s just nice to be wanted.
My flesh has turned to grass, and its swaying 
in the slightest breeze. You can graze any time, 
but I’m locking the gate. My eyes are black
holes but all they suck in is emptiness. It’s not hard 
to be amazed, but it’s hard to live with 
the disappointment that follows. A drug mule 
but for hope. A door greeter to the underworld.
If you have to put down something you love, know 
that you can always pick it up again, you just have
to clear out the bracken. The same is true
for the heart, for hope, for ever being whole again.  

Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than thirty books, including the poetry collections Riceland, The Bottle Episode, and his newest, Having a Baby to Save a Marriage, as well as his latest novels Goodbye, Mr. Lonely and The Saviors. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

 
 

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