Poems
by Richard
LeDue
Poem For My Autistic Son
Every time you hit your head,
my heart gets slapped in the face
like someone painstakingly praying
to a god that never answers,
and every bruise you give yourself
kicks me hard enough
to make me believe in a soul
because of the hurt.
When Bluebirds Do Their Most
Bach is the best
umbrella I can manage
on those rainy days,
when bluebirds
do their most to hide
and make me miss them
just enough
for me to realize
they’re still somewhere.
While My Dandruff Made Love to Gravity
The whisky was sharper than me
last night, and it was still
turning up the volume
for a headache
I just couldn’t quiet down
the next day,
but silence seemed more
like a poorly practiced
drum solo
than the solution,
so I put on some Brahms,
figuring my pain should be
at least classical.
