You reek of smoke and heartbreak.

There is a forest fire raging in your gaze
that I cannot extinguish with mine.

It can be doused, perhaps—
or smothered
with more eyes and more eyes and more eyes—
but my water pail is filled with Patrón.
I cannot quell it alone.

The thirst in your wildfire eyes
is drying me to leather;
jerky for the vultures.

Maybe they
can quench it.

I am alcohol and lame steak.
You are smoke
and heartbreak.

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

Ready, aim…and fire!
            Chatter and laughter and explosions in the sky,
            Our youth burned out—then rose the mourning choir…
Ready? Aim and fire…
            We cling to wartime needs and the will to survive to acquire
            A win against the adversary, and not die.
Ready, aim, and fire.
            Chatter and laughter and explosions in the sky.

Do not shine light
upon the mirror at night.

Do not peer
into its murky depths,
for you will rouse the Thing
that placidly watches
from the other side.

The Thing that peers
so curiously,
glinting,
taunting,
wishing you would wake it.

Do not look
when it waves.
Do not speak
when it taps.

Do not rouse the Thing.
Do not touch
the glass.

Morning birds coax the raised words carved into my palm.
But carved is too gentle—
they were hacked,
the way an angry butcher cleaves a spoiled pig in place of his darling wife.

PRAISE HIM.

Praise who?

PRAISE HIM.

I will.
I do.
Every hour, on the hour:
PRAISE HIM.

Crimson blood drips,
yet it runs as slowly as it can,
for I still must
PRAISE HIM.

To resist is a sin.
To stop would be unforgivable.

So every hour, on the hour,
I must
PRAISE HIM.

A line, fractured clean—
I stare.

How
Can this mirror be so mean?

Shards of truth,
Slicing my skin,

Oh, what I’d do
To see me whole again