Cain Sings The Moon Blues

Matthew Johnson

No trace of the blues laid on his face.

Sometimes you could see a glint of tear-licked regret,
But an unkempt beard logged and hid
Any water if he had been crying.

But boy when he sang,
Repeating that same sob story into the infinite,
That chained-up hellhound would howl somethinā€™ fierce;

Lightning bolts were the strings to his guitar, and his roars were thunderous.
Oh how he would bellow of his heartbreak and rootlessness
In isolated protest

For he was a mere spittinā€™ distance from Heaven,
Despite being the farthest being from God.

Matthew recently earned his MA in English from UNC-Greensboro. A Northern Transplant, he has worked as a sports journalist/editor for Fansided, USA Today College, and The Daily Star (Oneonta, NY). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Maudlin House, The Roanoke Review, The Sport Literate, The New Southern Fugitives, and the Twin Bill. He's a Best of the Net Nominee (2017) and has published one book, Shadow Folk and Soul Songs (Kelsay Books). @Matt_Johnson_D