The ship left the bay 10 years ago, bro. So why does this carve my arteries like a heartless severing? I dunno. I guess I’m broke in. Like a ******* hauling too many groceries. All the while this is what you’ve shown me: how shadow can be soft.

I’m sat by the river when the sunlight crests & the scalpel sneaks in.

Like an end-of-times film where the people we love simply disappear. Why am I so surprised? I don’t know. I guess I’ve spent another token. A naive kid in an arcade fantasy. But the neon gas burned out from the inside. Every vessel & every vein are collapsing, my guy.

& these poor lonely bones are forgotten—
just like the rain.

sheathe me in
vanilla heat
all musked up
& shower wet

roll me into
a fat blunt
draw in the
dank taste

c o m e
undone

take me back
ten turns around
the sun when
you were my life

i’ll kindly ask
a stranger to
ignite the spark
in my teeth

because i’m a
bergamot *****
torching this
nylon dream

you try to
rip my pith
from your
brain pits

but when you
pull back his
husk to take
in the oud . . .

the sillage of our
love is conjured
& suddenly we
are back in the
b  e  d  r  o  o  m
on joseph avenue

the projector whirs
a soft hum
while the film spins
into oblivion

a moment too soon
as the blade is ******
into the blooming
heart of the moon

meanwhile, it’s rock candy
hard edges with a crystalline
white-*** man proclaiming:

“the miracles of old, you know
they don’t happen anymore”

the crusty man &
a crowd of dim eyes
cry ten thousand tears
into the dying light
of hades flames
& the glamour of
gabriel’s smile

heaven & hell
intertwined like
*** on the shoreline

all dark
all light

split the bone
& make a wish
my limited sight
erased with a
silver kiss

The boy was flying high on spells woven through white lines. In the wingspan of nine hundred & twelve days, once forbidden things have RSVP’d…now they are

Knock
Knocking

***** out & draped on the couch—tarnishing every song ever sung.

“Curtis, did you remember to feed the dogs?”

His mind—crossfaded & fried. He tries to summarize with forty-three lies eclipsing the snap of his fragile spine. & then a small smile that breaks your heart for the millionth time.

“I luv you so
much
much”

He proclaims before taking ten men in a Motel 6.

& when the front door opens
& the keys hit the bowl
You're too tired for conflict
So you tuck it away

Besides…
The dogs are okay
You watch Curtis fall asleep
A good end to a sadder day

Can I get
some jas—
mine on my
tongue?

A delicate
thing to buffer
the poison—
ing.

Fill my lungs
with petals s—
oft.

Ring the doc—
tor. Call it
off.

Do not
resuscitate
The night—
shade.

Let her slum—
ber on the
eternal
gate.

Sweaty bodies spike volleyballs outside of the avocado. That’s when you strolled in with some sand in your toes. A few chance hellos & maybe a wave lost in the mist of a crowd. But that wasn’t it.

Nor the platinum locks & black triangle pointing down with no birthday drink,
Nor the lack of sushi in a rooftop bar where strange girls tell us how perfect we are,
Nor the climbing onto your lap when we make out in your car,
Nor the deep-throat choke that went too far.

It was fast & it was fun with ladles of pre-*** but not enough love. Maybe if your heart had the right gland, you’d drip something meaningful into my cup.

& when the pouring rain collapsed the windshield, I witnessed hometown glory trampled by equestrian gold. & your touch was cold. But your homes have such stylish throw pillows.

Now you get your pills for *******. & your smile is a jackknife. While I’m down the hall listening to a young man from Venezuela who ran through the jungles of Panama so he could sit in a rooftop bar or make out with a boy in a car & not fear for his life.

It’s a bastardized glance from down the avenue. Whispering like bitter apple seed acts of mercy. Microdosing their way to an end with a means. Now will you please carve the mirror raw until my lemon eyes are pulp on the pages? I need blindness, can’t you see?

Knock, knock. The seraphim is here. Six-winged & singing. Cue the volcano until its hot **** is pouring down the drain. Tear the scabs from the cracks & watch fresh blood swirl like soft serve on a Sunday afternoon. Draw the gentle strands from each follicle until a nest for feral things is laid gently at your feet.

“This is the closest to death I’ve ever been.”

Something to be said by every living thing upon waking. & the sun & the moon keep doing their ******* thing. & these lungs keep filling & emptying. No permission was granted, yet they drag me into every sentient morning.

it took but
two whispers
to drop it all
on the cutting floor

no amount of
morse code
can save us now
my sweet

a silver doe
vanishing
in snow

i wipe the sleet
from your cheek
as we hold onto
shards of light
in the dark

three points where
two lines meet

flex your knees

it wasn’t
p r e c i o u s
no pearl

it was cyanide
after ***

a ******
at the end
of the world

Brace for impact because I’m coming home. Slam dunked into the veins of ancient loves. The dog is dead. Just a skeleton of unspoken things in a backyard cemetery. What did the military teach you, John? You can buy up the cable news, but you can’t rewrite history.

You can bury your lavender lips under the leaves of the world, but you can’t erase the ***** stains. They remain.

Buckle up because I’m on your doorstep. Ten tons of faggotry on your front lawn. Tell your daughters to look away. Because daddy’s mistake is here to stay. It’s Christmas of ‘23 and the trees are a choir of yesterday. We share this memory. Thrown from your embrace on the ATV—my tailbone cracked the ice. I cried. But the pain was bearable because your rosebud blossomed only for me.

Every single ******* one of you will spruce it up until it’s a bone-thin grin reflecting off the lens. Dress it up like a queen until she’s dragging her heavy pageantry. A millstone into the deep end. But I know every story, every wound, every memory. The grey morning greenway walk. The gimlet at 308 and flamingo manhattan. The soiled cloth sprayed into the porcelain pit. The carnal scent of ******. The animal bones gathered. The hot pink brain splatter from the axe. You can paint the subject as a father, a lover, or a son. But he’s never been more than a stepping stone. Smooth and mediocre. But when skipped across the water, he’s free at dawn.

I see a lone moose bellowing at the end of the world. From a neighboring ice cap, I kneel until my bones scream. & in a sweater poorly knit, I sing one last song to the three souls split from my own.

I know you hate me. Foals ripped from a home. A kitchen beam to hang all things lovely. But Rochelle rusted clean & chariots dragged us into new things unfolding on a serpent’s tongue. I see a hollow carcass in the shed drained of plasma.

What remains is spirit. A whisper of hope. Can you hear it? From the lips of an antique angel on a tree. You & you & you & me. Grey spaces in between. & when the loaf is cut in half will there be room for forgiving?

Grandmother clock longing to tock. Her second hand pleading to sweep the face. Graze the six or touch the twelve. It had been a long stretch of silence since the lithium drained.

Grandfather bottle is empty too. He hit that babysitter like the side of a parked car. The chrome finish—split. It had been a long stretch of time since he avoided a headline.

Son long gun hanging on the wall. Displayed like the prey he sprayed with powder. A face unrecognizably rouged with bits slipping down the drain. It had been a long stretch of night since he loved his own blood.

Father three candles on a window sill. A distance spread like an animal hide. Brittle to the touch—no formaldehyde. He reaches into the moonlight, but it had been a long stretch of days since the flames touched his meager face.

Mother/daughter save us with your grace. A gentle tick of forgiveness like the unnumbered  hours in this temporal place. We do what we can & then try again in this vacuum of humanness & deep void of space.

I’m salivating for vermouth like sand in my throat. There’s an app for that. Add to cart. Juniper berries and high tea. Click. Scroll. Oil of the rind. Transaction cleared, but I’m dying on the vine. I need dissociation. Scroll. Scroll. Too many apps to tap. Into a black hole. Stirred into the perfect dilution. Update my software. I need a golden ratio. Cross my heart and pay the fines. I am a fermented thing. Twisted onto the rim of the goblet of time.

Did I once lubricate the sun? I don’t know. But I milked the golden hour before the moon began to devour. Skin stretched thin & bones banging (around). The thrumming drum of a pulse. A flesh sack, flannel-wrapped. I am what remains of a cold sunset. My stretch marks reach to touch places once fuckable, now not. Bacteria bubbling my cheeks. Kiss the peaks & disguise the disgust. I am the cold side of the bed—uncomfortably numb. Amoeba black & skinny jeans in the trash. Concealed in soft matte. Becoming unseen will be my greatest & final act.

Collar my throat and pull until it chokes. Rip me into a smile & hairspray the grin. An aluminum can to lacquer the split ends. “Everything’s fine”, he says. For the love of god, call the guards when I’m carving the walls with my claws. Zip-tie my zealous thoughts and draw my blood. Tap the microphone and read the results. The infection sings like a loon bellowing. Soon I’ll be gone. & with your leash tightening, I scream: “Be wary, my children of the master. His ways are tricky and his fingers are alabaster.”

You wince. Wave your tears like a flag. Weeping for the hellfire perceived to lick me up. But let me tell you daddy-o…I’m a snack. Your nightmare of a son. A ****-*******, pearl-clutching heart attack.

The shape of me is still here.

The one you taught to bait a hook & reel in a catch. There are two worlds whose shoulders brush. A bobber in a still pond & a broken back. Frog legs in a bag, battered & fried. The other fathers cried. A ****** mess.

The shape of me is still here.

Mutilated, yes. Kissing the flame & wiping the wet from your eyes. Can you comprehend? Have you even tried?

******* this hint of musk. It papers my eyes in polaroids. Drags me by the hair into every dusty corner. ******* sweet from clover until I’m dried up. A clay man cracking in the oven. ******* the burning leaves. Pillow-puff wafts of smoke sneak in through cracked windows. Take my hand, lost boy. Let’s **** the umami autumn into our mouths. Come closer, let me lap it up from your lips while my fingernails tighten into your skull. ******* the summer sun. It boils my shoulders into blister-pop red. A layer of skin piling up on the nightstand after a day in the backwoods. The creek kissed the mud from my toes & exposed a leech…feeding. Later, I cried alone on the bathroom floor when I plucked it like a petal. ******* its pregnant body & everything stolen from me.

Screeeech goes the sound of the metal door sliding to a close in a house black as crows. An owl howling—juxtaposed with white earthenware pecked by rainbows. Happy Christmas from the trenches of bone meat and parsley. I’m legs crossed in a quiet corner screaming “cut!” because this strange stage play needs to be noosed. The compactor reeks of trauma pressed too neatly. Coats piled on the floor with salted mistletoe. A savory kiss from the host as she clack clack clacks her dentures. A hand not to be slapped, but severed—falling onto the feast table. A crack of pepper. The guests scream as apples tumble from the backyard tree. Quickly wheeled away to conceal all of the rotting. You see, the morning sun in Harmon insists on licking a clean lawn. But this boy is a dawn renegade with a fistful of fuel. And when I unearthed your heart, I set it aflame. Cranberries in my smile, while the black house burns.

Eli looks at me while buttoning his shirt and asks: “Where do shadows go when it rains?” I take a sip of communion wine and lift my body from the baptistry. “Here.” My thumb stroking his left chest pocket. Christ, we both know about disappearing acts. He smiles for a moment before a tear unfurls like a ribbon. I kiss his eyes and then we slip out the back. My lips still salt-wet. Where does love live when it’s forbidden? My feet turn the pedals. Eli’s hands are on my waist as we bike into the sunset. Two fallen angels.

Sometimes I pretend to have blood-love enveloping. And if I did, when I’m too weary to breathe they’d tell me:

“Rinse out your soul in sage and citrus. Wrap your heart in artichoke leaves. Kiss your cheeks with bing cherries and paint your nails chartreuse. Drink.

This tea is ancestral and sweet. Son, breathe. Slip your limbs into water so salted you’re floating.”

They’d burn candles ceremoniously. And inside this ring of protection, my racing thoughts cease. A holy basil embrace. A family.

But let’s be real. When my inhale catches in my throat like a flash flood. I’m alone. It was all just a fantasy painted in cord blood.

A Sicilian lemon grove.
Root-rotted.
Fruit of stone.

He was lost in the second verse when a hand settled softly on his chest. & if he knew then what he knows now, he’d see it not as gentle. Not as sweet.

He would’ve leapt from the sill of his second-story window if only to feel less perishable.

He’d mind the gap when boarding the train. Calmly staring out the window at the syrup sunset & a longhorn-shaped hole. A matador, too slow.

But it was the love J didn’t feel when holding him that sent him screaming down the street. It wasn’t serene. It was wet with love-deth.

&
d e a f e n i n g .

The chorus hit like an ice pick when the white car pulled up to drag his body away. The berbere dream euthanized and preserved in a jar. On display for strangers to gawk.

The way your forearm sculpts as your fist pumps the steam. Give me all the toppings on a six-inch submarine. My god, I’m starving.

Eighty-five cents and something sweet. You’re laughing with your friends. But can you imagine? In the closet near the vending machines. You could be my BB King.

You see,
I've been downhearted baby
Ever since the day we met

And it’s worse at the bar. 1 am. I’m locking up when you hold me tight. You dare to kiss my neck. A choice, unfair. Boy, you better come correct.

Because you split. No ****. But I want two scoops of you in my bowl. Whipped cream and a cherry stem in my teeth. I could be your Dairy Queen.

Ever since we met
(your hair moves in the breeze)
I’ve been downhearted
(the way you look at me)
I’ll never be your baby

I’m trapped, ok. Do you understand? Frozen on Delaware. Teetering on a low-head dam. Praying to be pulled into the drowning machine. Yet stuck like a glitch two seconds from death. I am the déjà vu black cat on loop. Subsisting in a broken economy where heartbeats are stutters of lace in a famished bed. Don’t you get it? I’m not even here. Or there. Call my name and listen to it echo down the halls of Lovers Lane. Ricocheted off the asphalt and taped into cardboard. Left behind in past-due storage units. A scuffed CD-R in a wi-fi world. Desiderium monolithed in bedrock. An analog fossil shipwrecked in minor key. Driftwood grief washed upon a February beach.

Soil alchemy under the lilac tree. The smell of a dozen dead tadpoles stuck in the aquarium filter. Porcelain figures—staring at me. Sunshine on Leith. Newspaper film wet with chemicals. Attic bedroom touching. Return of the Mack. Leaf River Napstering. Two scoops of blue moon in a waffle cone. The dial-up tone before 2am A/S/L-ing in a gay chat room. Vinegar dripping from faucets dipped in 24k gold. All of that blood and screaming our silver CR-V to the vet. The midwife and a placenta in the freezer to forget. Cloth diaper pails and thermoforming meltdowns. The domino effect of coming out. All alone in the Jefferson house. A Modern *****. A small fist. A dance floor. The sound of his voice. How all of these things are darlings on a cliff top. Waiting their turn to be ****** off.

The ineffable innocence of a child dancing in fire-smoke. A forest twig plucked becomes a magic stick. The ember tip wisps a spell into existence. But with all of his conjuring, he could not stay the Eateress. Her coal-kissed nails twisting into flesh.

“It’s a burning, breaking thing. This world.”

His eyes look scared, even when they’re smiling. The dirt-curse she wove entwined in his spine. A biting, retching thing. The time has come for new witchery. Seventeen steps into the woods. Six steps back. Turn left. Tracing the rings of Saturn around his skull.

“Make it blacknesses. Make me blacknesses.”

Three fingers to his chest. He talons away some bits of flesh. The blood, lets. He shift-shapes not into a beast, but a carcinoma. Devouring the Eateress from inside and returning to his original form once she has died.

In the following hours, he sits fireside. Pokes a log. Dreams of dancing. And with smoke in his eyes, he cries:

“It's that boy.
Him I want to put my arms around.
To hold him. To hold him.
Chase the scaredness away.”

He poured all the years into the river of his youth. It curves like black tears under the midnight moon, and the atmosphere is bent in sapphires. Estrangement—a circuit board with one ***** loose. What is the hour without an atomic clock? Or GPS coordinates when all the satellites are ******? Life in the periphery is to be a precious gem in a forgotten alley market after the fall of capitalism.

The edges of the carol singer’s face soften and fade as I nurse another glass of whiskey like a medic on call to save my tired soul. “I’m going home for Christmas,” escapes my lips with a gentle slur. I board the train. Or was it a plane? No, wait…it was my own **** car. Memory is strange. I glide through my hometown, but I feel like a foreigner now. And when I park in front of my parent’s house, I stare at the pine grove we planted. The tops mingling amongst the cumulonimbus. The frozen garden. Where have all the sweet winds gone? I stay for a few days, but I’m trapped in a deep haze. It’s only been three months since my best friend’s death. I return to my second home. A city of cranes. I belong here, I guess. You see, home is a prism. Light that falls into new spaces and places—warming the cheek for a measure of time. And just like that, a dove hovering amidst the skyscrapers lands upon the scaffolding. A temporary structure. A rest for the wings.

The lord’s voice snuck in quiet that summer like a locker room **** peeking out from the hem of a t-shirt. A whispered taunt. An alter call. Lift the fabric and taste the skin. Feel the blood engulfing. The secret hunt for mushrooms. Hallucinations of arched spines in the deep end of the pool. Communion wine on my chin and the wafer of your body on my tongue—dissolving. My position…kneeled. The peacock’s wail. Riding ******* in an open field.

He was brushing his teeth when the eyes begin to glaze over (again). He feels a torrent in his chest. Clawing up his neck. Thrown against the travertine. A little death. & the dead lay upon the living. & the dark corners swallow the light. It’s only eight o’clock in the ******* morning & he’s his own EMT resuscitating himself back to breath. He spits the Listerine & tries to forget. The Uber is arriving. & besides, who’d pay the fee for dying? He can’t stomach any more debt.

Something went awry with the experiment because his skin became translucent for a few seconds when time bent. Now in some ancient city and the people in the street are coughing. Stumbling into a building, he slumps to the floor next to three dead bodies. He knows he can’t go back. He knows the sickness is coming. The sun sets an amber glow across his cheek as a small bird sings. “It’s the future I miss the most”, he thinks. A flash of his daughter's smile…as he falls asleep.

Once I started dancing the secrets fell from my eyes like a transaction. So I belly up to the bar to refract it. Something close to death for a little bit.

“You see, timing is of the essence.” He mutters while biting his cigarette. So I called off work and left it all on the line. But now I’m curbside and ghosted wondering what to do about today.

Some nips of whiskey at the cinema to quiet all the stimulus. Time slips.

Then I’m shaken awake with strobe lights and his hands on my hips. Two more sips. Lost in the music. The whole thing felt like subtraction. I mean, a distraction. Tonguing the neck of death for a little bit.

I don’t want to age gracefully, I want to touch the sun and feel engulfing flames. I want my bones exposed upon the plains. Every soul from my past will come to survey. Monocle and stethoscope—does a spark remain?

Only echoes now.

They reflect upon the times I laughed. Grew a garden so high the neighbors cried. Scent of cider and autumn on parade. Painted a house in sage and a deck in grey. The grass cut neatly like a landing strip. Where my skeleton is softly laid.

Towards the end, there was The Good Place inside of The Dying Place.

The raven watches silently.

You were drifting on waves of Ativan while I vaped in the courtyard before I flipped the mouse card. Lotioning your feet—now yellowing.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to the nurse. “But here, take this” as I handed her the phone I yanked from the wall.

No more distractions, please.

An advance copy on a projector screen. Downton Abbey in The Dying Place. You couldn’t believe it. But you also couldn’t stay awake.

Nowadays when I say “calzone”
I’m actually saying “can I have another year on loan?”

When I think about bourbon in the rainbow-speckled glass, it’s a sip-by-sip plea to get those years back.

Alas…

I hold your hand.
The dolphin returns.
I kiss your head.
The mouse rests.
One last breath.
And the raven's wing lifts.

Blood flooded my cheeks at 5 am. A frozen farewell kiss from Saint Joe while I’m scraping snow from my window. Shield me from the crushing pain, I think to myself. My brother waves.

And off I go.

In this new chapter, a stranger is singing in the shower. His cat shedding everywhere. The beasts of the southern wild are howling at the fireworks outside. Because they just want to crawl into a quiet corner and die. Peacefully. Like little bodies in sleeping bags. These makeshift beds were the beginning of the end.

I digress.

I’m a roommate now. A divorcee. And when he’s out working I’m alt-j laundry loading and making a snack. As if some chèvre and crackers could ever muster the gusto to drop-kick this depression attack. Can’t afford the meds so I grab a coffee with a philosopher. That should do the trick.

Nope. I got Žižeked to death.
What a mess.

I drive back home just to have you put your back N 2 it. And when you try to tongue and groove me, I recoil. Your ******* cat coughs up a hairball when you kick me out. Then he looks up with cloudy eyes and I realize: OkCupid is a terrible place to find a housemate.

Beginners mistake.

“i’m sorry
for promising
more than i was
ready to give”
he said
& then
shook my
******* hand

i’m too broken
too much to bear

so string me up
on a fence
& staple to my chest
a warning

“you deserve better”
another one claims
as he pulls away

my damage
sets fire to the chorus
chokes the refrain

if
one
more
man
says
“i can’t give you
what you need” . . .

it’s going to be
a fuckawful
s   c   e   n   e

now, i’ve come
to accept
& wholeheartedly
concede

i am a ripe
swollen shape
so give me
deep space
or make it fatal
when the next
hammer swings

but first, it was the sun
scooped up by small glass
immolating ants in the tall grass
set free

then hiding out in the basement
striking 10,000 sticks
mesmerized by the shimmer
until it kissed my fingertips

how did i not burn our house down?

the mysterious charm
becomes mere utility
on the farm
burning copper
for a few dollars
the tower of black smoke
reaches out like
a dystopian arm

then a wood-burning stove
to escape two feet of snow
on the chocolate sofa
where my words
(not the heat)
left our home in flames

the matchbook
is nothing if not
mundane
these days

just two sticks
of incense
one morning
one night

a lonely ceremony

an occasional candle
whose light i want to
scoop up
& wash over me

I take Eli by the hand and lead him toward the tattered door. “No one’s around. Let’s go in.” The thrill. Was it? Empty pews and stained glass glow. Past the alter to a secret corridor. The shallow pool. To lay our bodies. Disrobed and divine. Baptism. Was it? His pinkening cheeks. The shrill of a trapped bird on the sill. Or was that the sound of our release? A sticky truth in the holy halls. We rest. And breathe. Rinse it all down the drain. Salvation. Was it?

My Chrysler was a survivor. Hidden piles of broken glass and leather seats split to foam. Summer of ‘99 and sailing down a gravel road named after a tree and a stone. And when we came to a stop, the dust did not. Meanwhile, the radio implores me to get it back 2 good.

I drag my sneakers with white socks pulled up to the shin to the only lonely structure on this stretch of land. A pole building painted ivory and evergreen. It’s mostly empty and smelling of raccoon **** and rusted metal. I grab the machete from the bench and get to work.

My squinted gaze is locked on the acres of horseweed ahead as I dramatically roll my eyes and walk down a freshly mown path. The unending task of the swing and the hack. Piles of severed green. My dad might call this agricultural TLC, but I am feeling very unpretty.

I distract myself from the labor with my Sony Walkman—mustard gold. She’s got EXPMAX technology with 40-second shockproof memory. The headphones move from my sissyneck to my sissyears and I’m pulled by a derelict wind to anywhere other than my own body.

That is, until the blade hits bone. My kneecap is now split in half by a sanguine smile. Its teeth of bubbling fat laugh at how my husky body runs. Its small mouth pouring its way down my calf. My sock, now a magician, is changing colors with effortless conviction.

The panic carries me down the street. Bless the neighbors and their butterfly bandages. Bless the glass of lemonade and a ring to my mother. Bless this memory buried deep under scar tissue purple and pink.

I now realize my first car and I had something in common. All this blood and gristle and glass needed an impact to be set free. Baz Luhrmann told me to be kind to my knees. But I blame it all on the ******* horseweed.

The world softens as the jackals tear into gray matter. A pound of flesh? Take twenty. Saran wrapped and gasped with elastic tongues releasing. Maybe I shouldn’t eat? Crawl across the floor. Starving. The repulsion neatly packed into too many to-go containers. Buy one, get one free. Clamshells waiting silently for a low tide feast.

A shard of metal—electric taped to the portal. Shrapnel from a cymbal. Or was it a symbol? Bell bronze. Nickel silver. If you strike something enough, it’s going to break free. Or did I just break everything? Factory grease. Sociology. Sometimes I fantasize about climbing a tree. The tree is named Cereal. And when I ascend, I am camouflaged in green. Waiting for winter to take me under its wing. I become an alloy. A sonnet. She ties her weathered bow around my rust. I know it’s disgusting. But when you swing the gate—my patina sings.

You won’t see me when I enter. The crystals of glass
gliding past as I ride a sliver of moon glow

through your window and crumple to your floor.
You won’t see me when I rise and survey

the scene. A foreign body by your side. Books you’ll never
read. I slip a gossamer thumb into your slumbered

mind. Let me finger through your dreams. Taste you
from the inside. I’m not sure why I chose to arrive. But I’ll move

an object enough to leave a mark. And now, like before. You won’t
see me. I leave quietly in the night. The last thing you’d want

is an encore.

fertilized on god
yet withering
off-grid

look at what
you did, kid
when you
split

barbed
wire
ivy
meandering

don’t talk
down to me
no
pandering

listen to what
i said, babe
when i
came

right on out
into the
bleeding
truth

but there
is no map
in
me

this is all
so
differently
happening

That green glass bottle resting gently by your sink. A little mist of memories kissing the curve of your neck. You’re cooking in the kitchen. Cardamom. Cinnamon. Your braided belt is on the floor. The one I removed from the loops of your khaki gate. I’m at home in this garden. Please, oh please let me swing in the hammock until I’m old. Here with your majestic oak. Fingers in the coils of your moss. Ginger. Clove. You’re humming into the steam. I sit on the bruised leather sofa and remember how you once climbed up my second-story balcony. A bowl of berries and the cream of your teeth. Fenugreek. Everything fades. Gets pulled away. Coriander. Allspice. Let me taste the nutmeg once more. A small child stares at me because I’m in Target crying over a glass bottle and the man it contains. Paprika smoked into oblivion. Blooded ash on the edge of his drawing on your refrigerator. Inside, I’m rotting like a box of mushrooms you forgot. Behind the bowl of cherries. Cursed by your memory. Salt. Ground chilis.

The lawnmower idled—a mechanical reprieve. The engine became a dull lull calling me in. My brother left it running while he went inside to ***. My childhood naïveté and this metal monstrosity. Palpable curiosity.

I made my fingers into blades of grass. ****** them into the plastic chute. The ting of metal slowed when striking bone.

****.

I’m bleeding and screaming now.
Running into the house.

A small scar is all that remains.
That and this lesson:
Always keep your distance,
lest you be destroyed.

i slip from the
sheets to flip
the record

upon my return
i wonder if he will
make me clean
again

what these songs
mean to me
he will never
understand

how these
words & sounds
saved me from
the ground

he’s gone now
and i’m not
so sure
i’ll ever
be pristine

but i have
my vinyl
and that’s
all i need

peppered pinky
touch of pheromones
twisting the tufted
hair between your
shoulder bones

a forbidden meal
burrito never
consumed
a chipotle tomb

back on meds
cruising the grid
& test driving beds

now i’ve heard there
was a secret chord
the jester played &
a dance with moves
to fool ya

but i have seen
the light & fled
the scene
with nothing on
my tongue
but hallelujah

Look at us go. A gang of four awkward-toothed boys dragging our red bread wagon around. Hometown heroes with bouquets of flour. For a little green, you can slice the cellophane. Yeast in your nose and warm butter dripping.

Biking down Delaware. Left on Broad. Autumn’s vermillion blanket on the ground. John Deere and Orson Welles. Maybe in some fanfiction they were ******* behind the Casey’s General Store. Turning the soil to bury secrets. There’s an art in that. The rottweiler’s snarl is pulled back inside as the door closes.

My cousin lost an eye and I saw it floating in a jar like a marble on his nightstand. When it snowed I wondered if he only saw half of the flakes.

Before you left we each took a sharpie to a dollar bill: “FRIENDS 4 EVER”. Thirty years later it’s still tucked away in a little white box with a Michael Jordan valentine and mirrored blue marble. Something plucked from my childhood and I only remember half of it.

I found an old letter I wrote to you. November 8, 1993. 11:24 a.m. Nineteen minutes after my grandmother died.

“I miss you and hope that I can come visit sometime”

That winter was lonely. I climbed our sledding hill in my moon boots and as I looked across the tundra, I thought: I’m the last hometown hero.

“Ever since you left things have been pretty boring around here and I’ve been stuck in my house reading books”

I flew down that hill in my plastic saucer. The wind pulling every tear from my eyes.

“My pictures are in the envelope, when you write me a letter please write neatly”

When my sled hit the curb on Ridge Road I swear I kept flying. I’d say I never looked back, but that’s all I’ve been doing these days.

I see that microphone. She’s pressed to your lips. I watch you sink her deep deep deep into your esophagus. Choke on your ****. Will the crowds cheer when your very own throat…you split? Wide open and soakin’ your southern cross. We are ripping and shredding your hate into floss. Teeth so clean and ready to sing.

You think you can attack my family and hide safely in the weeds? No no no, you silly goose. You’ve dug your own grave. You’ve knotted your own noose. Justice is an arrow already in flight. The soapbox soon to be kicked out from under your feet. Your horror left hanging there…forgotten in the night. A human quiver of self-destruction.

Now please welcome to the stage…they need no introduction. The people who LOVE. The people who LIVE. We will not forget. But maybe. Just maybe. We can forgive.