graduation day

brian builta

The supple brown haunches
that yesterday leapt, today
roadside and buzzard-picked

A song
thumping in a box
of bone

One by one
from bitter honey
angry bees rise

Your knuckles bloody
from punching your uncle
in the clavicle

That hole
in your heart whistles
like a flute

I blubber about
all the diapers, bibs and bandages
washed in the wake

a wheezing
tightwad clutching
buttercups

An empty letter
jacket hangs
in the hall closet

traffic stop

brian builta

Do you know why I pulled you over?
the officer asked. Was it because of
a bullying incident in seventh grade?

I asked, unable to see her eyeballs
because of the mirrored shades, but she shook
her childhood and nothing fell free so I

gave her my gaze and perfect embouchure
which she ran through the computer system
but everything came back lackluster and

brutal so she let me off with a warning
not to leap off the seesaw at the bottom
unless I wanted a seesaw seat in my teeth

which I took to mean tumultuous toys
require caution so I thanked her
for her service which later required

taking a bullet for a colleague for which
she was commended and praised but today
it was just me and this localized boondoggle

which she was kind enough to dismiss like
a fatty liver that speaks up now and then
but will one day be the cause of your death

but for now you kind of have a thing for
people in charge who let you off with a warning
and a kiss before the onslaught of wild beasts.

Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, TriQuarterly and 2River View among others. He is the author of A Thursday in June (2024), a collection of poems about his son’s suicide, and more of his poetry can be found at brianbuilta.com.