POETRYThe Taste of KeroseneAaron Wiegert

Originally published April 15, 2012. 

A warm breeze fills the empty monastery
As a dull bell lulls the prayer wheel to sleep.
Red robed monks descend the mountain
Through a bullet’s swallowed silence.
Hundreds of stairs leave the holy men
With smiles that consume eyes and foreheads.

A merchant bags pears and apples
While soldiers finger shouldered guns.
The monks pool their coins and bow
To the merchant, sipping from their purchase
They wade in the shadow of a fountain.
No one minds the taste of kerosene.

Soldiers watch as matches are swallowed
The flames shudder, their robes devoured
As smoke fills the cherry blossoms
Rising towards the mountain.

---

Aaron Wiegert is the Poetry Editor of Drunk Monkeys. He has penned two chapbooks, Evil Queen (2013) and The Last Railroad Spike (2016), both from Budget Press.