B. J. Love

John F. Kennedy, you were opened up, once, with the precision only a rifle can afford. All our mothers learned what they would go on to teach us of tragedy that day. All our regret took aim at full-color television.

All we wanted was a glimpse of your innerworkings. Just to see inside that compound, we thought. All we wanted was to press our cheeks against heart, your real and pulsing soul. John F. Kennedy, you were going to be beautiful in your quarters, your halves. You were going to be beautiful, at least to us. O, to have felt that level of crisis against my lips! Patriotism, I think, is such a weird thing to be hopeful for.






This poem is from a series of ekphrasis based in Norman Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post covers, because, you know, why not?