by Amy Holman
Governor Sarah Palin,
too, likes abstinence for our eager youth.
That poor lovin' boy is wailin'
from his bloody head, fallen
by a pipe swung by a Ruth.
Governor Sarah Palin
cannot see the whale fin
as epochs older than the human tooth.
That poor lovin' boy is wailin'
for his sweetie's smile, wanting his girl in
bed with him, each other's secret sleuth.
Governor Sarah Palin
doesn't see the body's scale in
society, the adolescent mind, or fossil earth.
That poor lovin' boy is wailin'
from his stapled wound. A gail wind
has toppled Dad. No one seems to like the truth.
Governor Sarah Palin,
that poor lovin' boy is wailin'.
Amy Holman has been playing around with current news and/or headlines for a couple of years, here and there, including publications in Failbetter, Archaeology (online), Unpleasant Event Schedule, Rattapallax, Shade, and soon, on the Red Morning Press web site. She is the author of Wait For Me, I'm Gone, which won the 2004 Dream Horse Press annual chapbook prize. She writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction and work freelance as a Literary Consultant out of her tiny apartment in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
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