Sunday 5 May 2024

1 Poem by Rustin Larson


The doctor who signed my birth certificate
had been under his red granite stone
since 1971 until a flood came and washed him
downstream. He had liked ham
on French bread sandwiches at Bishop's.
He had chewed like Mike Mulligan's
steam shovel, ripping chunks with his
lower front teeth. He scooped bites
of French silk pie, and dipped French fries
in bloody pools of ketchup. He wore a lead
Eiffel tower to cinch his Texas string tie.
He had a happy life until the heart attack.
They buried him with his radium scuba
watch, and secret gifts from his Shriner
brothers which they had wrapped in white silk
and placed silently in his coffin.
His widow stood at the oven baking pies,
apple, cherry, peach, and pear, and there was
nothing anyone could do to stop her.


Rustin Larson's writing appears in the anthologies Wild Gods (New Rivers Press, 2021) and Wapsipinicon Almanac: Selections from Thirty Years (University of Iowa Press, 2023). Recent poems have appeared in London Grip, Poetry East, The Lake, Poetryspace, Pirene's Fountain, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. His chapbook The Cottage on the Hill was published by in April of 2022. He is on faculty in Maharishi International University's MFA in Creative Writing program.

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