The decrepit and the sacrificial juveniles
sit like stones
behind tarnished shadows
and I wonder how grandma can age alone
not missing the empty echo of orange juice
on good porcelain
never used for breakfast
until the tumor spread past his eye
but her eyes
still veil something
hollow

she says deeshes
just like she did before
when he was fighting
to find her
through chemicals
where syllables are
out of order

despite my best half-holiday smile
she still takes care of that
40 year old teenage aunt
still a victim
of a world that will never give her children a chance
but maybe it’s healthy
healthy
like orange juice
just before
chemo

I could still see
in the shadows behind of a vacant pupil
nothing
had changed

I finally released
all the tensions between tendons
like silent nuclear bombs
The only time
I could let go of the wheel
and renounce control
because I never wanted it anyway

I never screamed without hearing myself
but even if the sound had fled
to supposed other dimensions
no one would know
because the aftermath was devastating

I knew if I held my eyes shut
in that flash of desolation
I could have been somewhere else
and according to that twacked out philosopher
I would be

I’d be sleeping in the dark
bright as a 30-watt bulb
hesitantly lifting the blinds
waiting
for a black herring to glide
through scorching smoke
and grasp a lung with an iron grip
so I could inhale another stab of monoxide

dust leaps from a cracked sill
a suicide leap
it falls
from a ferris wheel
spinning ethereally in a ray of antique light

he complains of filth again
but I don’t notice
I only see ellipticals
riveting in wood grain
as stairs crack in explosive silence

he tells me go up there
says he knew I would anyway
so I run
when russet reverberations
become stained with blood

I find her upstairs
face flushed
swollen
with eyes dripping of humiliation
she tells me he meant everything
tells me about the dust
that it wasn’t a suicide leap
but a leap of faith
she said they danced
eyes blinded by the sun
fingertips pressed to the window
outlining shapes in glass fog
to imagine a life outside

blind promises lead to
a bruise festering beneath
stifled utterances and apologies
prerequisites for templates
of things never meant
but nevertheless
permanent

charred ochre and Prussian blue
churn into an acrylic wound
cringing
mesmerizing
all the ways to gouge into silence
just to purge verses that sound like
Not next time, I swear
I guess this is what they meant by
abstract

I should’ve listened
when I heard from a backdrop
that perfection is silent
behind clouds of luminescent cataracts
gushing
scorning
what has yet to be illuminated

but all this talk of perfection
makes me want to burn at the stake
there must be something
to ruin or save
because sacreligion isn’t free