Austin Beaton - Poetry

Coming of Age

by Austin Beaton

Ghosts of violin scratches

made by burnt witches being

driven over their grandsons

earning raising wages

isn’t silent. Despite church

hymns; it doesn’t all work out

though our atoms

end up somewhere; when

Grandma’s pistol naps

in the dark of a cabinet

I kiss the newest hound

near the dead buried below

still echoing backyard

sobs. Pray to the days

of forgetting feeling mortal

like kid legs & nameless calves

not muscled, dangling

above what’s decided for us.

Once the self judges bicep small

then stomach fat inflates.

If I snap at your pronouncing

supposebly, you hide your

charisma. I’ve hugged you.

I’ve hurt you. Jesus how

teleportation ruined flying’s fun.

What I want from the past

is a letter & a song but

the moon throws only

its cables of silver

and God is a place

that can offer a small

handshake of quiet

at this time.