Spring 1985 • Vol. VII No. 2 Poetry |

The Scream

(after the painting by Munch) You hear them? Look . . . the ships, the church, the ice, the winter sunset an open wound on the horizon, this bridge, the good neighbors promenading behind my back--I hear their voices grating the keels grinding into the ice, the steeple stabbing the sky in hemorrhage streaming red-- the bridge rocks, strange voices bay me on, hands cupped to my ears can't shut them out-- enough, shout them down with your heart's blood, drown out the ships, the church, the sky afire, the bridge of a thousand mounting accusations--cry, cry crimson or loose a blinding scream to hollow out the sockets of your eyes.

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