Poetry by Brian Builta
At the Stapleton concert I become
one clap after another, a whooo,
a dervish of hollers and whups,
a disembodied scream. This happens
on occasion. As the fatherless son
and the sonless father, Father’s Day
is a trigger, my poor poor daughter.
Sometimes her father goes missing
right in front of her, missing his chair
and sprawling on the arena floor.
So far, I’ve always come back, so far.
Truth: incarnation is overrated,
yammering emotions running amuck,
saltwater on the cheek, thunderclap
weighing down the chest. My little
private tornado feels so good, so
delightfully destructive and harmless.
Of course, next day I’m a truck-flattened
squirrel. Energy has its consequences.
Stapleton can only get you so far
before the gravity of the empty letter jacket
in the hall returns, reminding your life
is now angry bees rising from bitter honey,
where the best therapies are leaves
murmuring free from any standard-issue tree
as long as there’s a breeze.
Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His poetry has been published most recently in Freshwater Literary Journal, Meridian, and Red Ogre Review. More of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com.
