Battle Island

At Black Hawk Recreation Park
I crouch with my six year old nephew
and gaze into Bad Axe River
once tainted red with the blood of fleeing Indians
all whom surrendered only to be massacred—
women, children, warriors.

Mosquitoes buzz about our ears
and my nephew refuses to swat them,
for he says they must eat too.

Instead, he upturns his half white
forearm, while three suck the red out.
I can almost hear the gunshots.
The boat’s cannon fire. Screams—
Give your blood to this land.

- Mathias Nelson

(featured in the poetry forum 12.28.10)

Affix

She’s intangible, but there
in my head again. This time
I won’t push her away, instead
cup her in my hands like a fish
dying on land. I shall move gingerly
and make absolute so that
no love spills from my fingers
and takes her air away.
This may be a folly, for I too
am a fish, cupped in her hands,
one that she may grow weary of
carrying, and set down in the prickly grass
where I will spit my last drops of air
at the sun. All similes aside, girlie,
do you know my first waking thought today?
Tea. Iced tea. Second thought:
Nikki. Eventually you will replace thirst.
You will be the river that mankind settled next to
in order to survive. This is no joke.
People have died in draughts. We are not
just a metaphor. Me and you
are real.

- Mathias Nelson

(added 12.28.10)

Bed With Wheels

The ballpoint pen
falls through
the dusty sunlight.

The keyboard keys
scatter across
the hard tile floor.

And a number two pencil
snaps
between my clenched teeth

all of it
as I pull covers
over my head.

- Mathias Nelson

(added 12.28.10)