Francis Alexander Finch, poem by Carl Boon

Francis Alexander Finch
tilts his plastic dinner plate
against the hard light
of Hazelton Prison,
reasoning the details
of his rape case and limiting
the movement of a single
black ant. His mother,

JoAnne Daphne Finch,
has exited the grounds
and leans on the hood
of her blue Toyota, smoking
Kent menthols. The distant hills
are disasters for her,
the dusk wrings her thoughts
then spits them out.
What’s the reason for this need?

It’s a given he’ll grow gray
inside the walls, the gray walls
touched here and there
with graffiti. He’ll meander
back to his cell for protocol,
Wheel of Fortune on a tiny screen,
the man in C-212 screaming
obscenely all night.

There are demons,
there are fucking wolves
in the concrete. There are reasons
why Francis Alexander Finch
shouldn’t be here, but he is,
as he separates the corn
and carrots and celery
on his plastic dinner plate.

boonA native Ohioan, Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Peach, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and Poetry Quarterly.

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