by Zachary Lundgren
He was drunk and I’m sure it helped
when I took the iron
from the stove: a loud red, a cruel star.
I held the iron like a relic
of some religion we’ve all long forgot
but is still always burning always
holy, always the shackle and the wrist.
I didn’t ask if he was ready because
that’s how it goes. The iron bit into his calf,
greedy to share.
After, he laughed he displayed his leg
like a king, like a city limit sign.
Not like the night, last of last summer, when I collected
photographs, old shirts and notebook paper
into a bantam fire and made goodbye
Zachary Lundgren received his MFA in poetry from the University of South Florida and his BA in English from the University of Colorado at Boulder and grew up in northern Virginia. He has had poetry published in several literary journals and magazines including The Louisville Review, The Portland Review, Barnstorm Journal, The Adirondack Review, and the University of Colorado Honors Journal. He was nominated for the 2012 AWP Intro Journals Award and was awarded the Estelle J. Zbar Poetry Prize in 2012.
Image credit: ffunyman on Flickr