Tristan Robert Lange

The Fence in the Boy

The rupture-red fountain

Shot upward fifteen feet,

An immense flow

That sky shot with

Punishing pressure.

But from where?

It was hard to see,

Other than that the stream,

Conical, flaring up and out,

Turning outward and down

In crimson rain.

Upon closer inspection,

The funnel-straw was formed

From fencing,

Pierced in a mound

And jetting up

In widening width.

The fencing,

Conical as it was,

Still allowed rough

Sanguine spray

Through porous grating.

Upon further advance,

The mound was moving,

Twitching tremorously—

It was a body,

It was human—

A boy’s bloat.

Getting close as comfort allowed,

I could see the eyes

Stitched open,

Bloody tears trailing

Down death’s cheek.

Beneath the nasal summit,

An abyss

With calcium peaks

And overhangs.

The fountain’s flood

Fell upon all beneath,

A fetid flow,

Clotted and chunky—

A coating of

Sanguinaccio.

Looking up,

These words could be seen,
Formed in the flowing fluid:

“Murder most malicious.”

Who’s murder could this be?

Drawing closer,

Ever so near,

The boy’s body appeared

To bear familiarity’s face.

For lying there,

In a horrific display

Upon the past’s threshing floor,

Was the visage of little me

Wishing I had

More.

© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.