Poetry | August 4, 2022

Wild Eyes

by Robert Dudman

It was dusk. 

Sleepless dusk, hot dusk, 

In summer.

On the old property where I lived as a child. 

Little house on the farm, fields stretched around us forever.

 Hot sun was barely blue over the heads of corn, in the field

At dusk, I walked through the screen door in the back. 

Through the screen door into the garden (which was wilting)

The screen slapped shut.

Naked, a child in the hot grass whose eyes had only ever seen the hot sun over the heads of corn in the field, on the farm.

Watched it turn blue at dusk every night.

I stepped through the screen door into the (wilting) garden as the last of the sun set over the heads of the corn.

The little white house on the farm, dirty.

Dirty, dirty, dirty. 

It was an old house, lost in the fields for decades. 20 miles from town, 20 minutes to town, Jimmy lived on this road, a mile down.

That's where IT was, looking out at me through the blue heads of corn.

I stood in the garden staring back in my innocence. 

Its nostrils were wet, dripping.

Dripping to the ground with each hot breath. 

I was small, I looked back standing in the garden (wilting).

Its neck protruded from the tall stalks of corn. 

Veiny.

Veiny Veiny Veiny.

The sight of them made me disgusted.

I clutched my own veinless neck to feel my heartbeat.

Our house was lost in a field for decades. 

Two rooms, all white. Dirty white. 

The walls were old plaster, cracking from years of smoke and breath.

We had just moved in.

Frogs lived in the irrigation canal across the street. I liked them.

Brother and I would jump in the canal and catch them.

The farmers were angry, hated them.

Grabbed and squeezed until their eyes popped out,

And I screamed. 

I looked from the veiny neck up to its nostrils.

The snout was dirty.

I could still feel my little heart beat in the neck. 

We used to sit out in the garden, back when it was flourishing. 

We sat in pink and purple lawn chairs under the pink and purple sky.

Someone played wild notes on the mandolin for us while we danced.

I looked from its snout up into its wild eyes. 

Big. Brown. Soft, but wild. 

A wild note playing. 

There’s buzzing all around us. Buzzing.

The mosquitoes are out. 

My flesh is bare, soft.

A feast for mosquitoes.

They do not touch me. 

Dogs in the corner are sleeping. They are ragged, panting.

Swatting the buzz with their rat tails.

I am in the middle of the garden (wilting) looking into the field, at IT.

It is not swatting bugs away either. 

They hover above its bulging veins.

They shy away from my suppleness.

We meet at the eyes now.

Wild eyes. 

My eyes are blue and wild. 

Its eyes are wild and brown. 

Its breath is hot and dripping.

Mine is shallow, as a child’s tends to be. 

They are buzzing around us. 

The sound makes me cry.

Big wet tears, wild and blue like the eyes they come from.

The beast cries wild and brown tears, a mosquito lands on one bulging neck vein.

I smack my neck, it dies.

The beast jumps. 

I can feel the heat of its flesh, even through the heat of the dusk and mosquitoes.

Its horns look heavy, they droop.

We break eye contact. I run from the garden. 

The bull runs from the field. 

Running along the fence, away.

I run away, the mosquitoes follow me. The dogs look up, sleepy. 

Running along the fence.

Away from the fence, into the field. 

Run until legs burn, breathing hot and running away.

Keep running, flesh burning red now. 

Thrush on my legs crack open.

Bleeding now.

Now the mosquitoes feast.

I cannot eat, however.

I can feel hunger, though. Like a pit.

Still running, horns heavy, legs burning, flesh breathing. 

I can feel the pit. Now I really feel it.

Corn won't fill it, food won't fill it. 

Try a smoke, doesn’t fill it.

Mouth watering, with the heat.

Sun is all gone now, stars are out.

Try a drink, doesn’t fill it. 

Still running, but I can do anything now.

My horns cut through the stalks of corn.

I can bellow loudly.

The farmers said I was wild when I played in the creek and 

Crushed the live crawdads to suck the meat out.

I know I wasnt though, ‘cause that

Was all in my wild blue eyes, trapped.

Try a kiss.

She was tranquil. Smooth arms, and hands.

Moved slowly, moved like the ocean. 

She had black, almond eyes.

Felt something like being full, but didn’t fill it.

My veins are all full and bloody now, 

The mosquitoes drinking deeply.

I whip around, the farmers are there with forks and torches.

They want to eat me.

I will sacrifice my flesh, but not now.

I run.

One runs toward me with a rope.

My horn finds his stomach and 

I whip that big neck. 

Guts all open, bloody groans.

I'm not wild. It's just in my eyes, I promise.

I pass a house.

Someone plays a wild note on a mandolin.

I tried more than a kiss. 

I sucked the life from her and swallowed it. 

I breathed all my life into her nostrils.

I devoured her body, tranquil ocean arms 

And all. 

And now I sacrifice my body to any who desire it.

Didn’t fill it.

I am still running, there is no where else to run 

So I run in circles.

My legs are gone, I fed them to her.

My horns are gone.

Stuck in some poor soul's gored stomach.

My neck belongs to that boy back in the wilting garden.

My eyes are there, still blue, still wild. 

Still running under the stars.

Still blue and wild.