Liam C. Calhoun is a history teacher in the borderlands of Texas. Meeting home after a quasi-long career of wanderings, mishaps and wanderings more, he spends nearly every moment he can squeeze recounting his ventures abroad and accounts inside. His recent poems have appeared in A Brilliant Record, Down in the Dirt, The Stray Branch and the collection books 100 Words, After Apocalypse, Bleeding Heart Cadaver, Don’t Forget It, Falling, Literary Town Hall and Purpose.
Bacon, Breathe and Benevolent
She paves the path
Of dynasties carved
With buckets of sludge upon back;
Bent, not unlike her mother’s limb,
But under shinier red flags,
Cloth coated, with lesser blood.
She’d had a hint of gray
She’d not had last time
She had a newer limp
She’d not had last time,
Her bosom furthered from firm,
Reaching for the ground, a promise,
In years to be wed with,
And yet the underneath
Of it all remained as radiant
As any sun’d ever been;
And come the cloudy day she leaves,
Even mine own eye
Will remain far from dry.
I’d remember freshly cured bacon,
And her tender chopsticks offering life;
She’d saved me once, she’d save me again.
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