The Scream

(after the painting by Munch)

You hear them? Look . . . the ships, the church, the ice,
the winter sunset an open wound on the horizon,
this bridge, the good neighbors promenading
behind my back–I hear their voices grating
the keels grinding into the ice, the steeple
stabbing the sky in hemorrhage streaming red–
the bridge rocks, strange voices bay me on,
hands cupped to my ears can’t shut them out–
enough, shout them down with your heart’s blood,
drown out the ships, the church, the sky afire,
the bridge of a thousand mounting accusations–
cry, cry crimson or loose a blinding scream
to hollow out the sockets of your eyes.