The Horn (a poem)

by Jordan Barnes

how many horns must I withstand
before I can hear Louis?

fret not
I sit,

thankful in silent respect,
but still waiting –

waiting for the horn to remember its place,
its wondrous place!

a setting adorned with the souls of children and babes disguised as men with unheld hands, course over brass buttons,
stinking of cigarettes and reefer –

it forgot it belonged on Earth.

The horn sounds like applesauce! Thick, flowing splendor turning speakers into snow globes and snow globes into horror stories –

can you see yourself in the windows of the tiny house? See?

There you are! There’s Momma, brown and blessed singing her heart into Jesus’ arms, and Daddy somewhere else –

forgetting his place,
just like the horn.


One Comment Add yours

  1. The Black Trans Nudist says:

    I felt this poem in my soul


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