came by it honestly, all right
drinking through long nights,
dinner at 2am in my boxers,
a beer and a shot and a beer and

and i started drinking when
i was 18, okay

used to be able to put it away,
accidentally became a regular at the
bar across from campus,
followed by going to walgreens and
not looking the cashier in the eye
as i bought $30 of barefoot bubbly
wine with what i got back from fafsa

never drank what my old man did,
though, if that counts for anything,
just the thought of old crow
grog with a splash of lukewarm tap
water, no ice, makes my stomach turn

couldn’t tell you the color of
my father’s eyes, but i sure as
hell remember what he drank

remember the palm of his hand,
hitting the table, making me jump,
squeezing my upper arms as an
anchor point to lean over me and
yell, always where the bruises
wouldn’t show

and i don’t think of my father
when i drink anymore, though i
still remember the last father’s day
i got really drunk and really angry,
but still not enough to call

and i don’t drink much now,
found i don’t like being drunk,
and like being hungover even less,
but i sure came by it honestly,
nevertheless

and i wonder if he would recognize me
now, close to a decade on,
or would i just be a stranger with
his face, like he’s a stranger
with mine?

it’s your birthday,
and you’re dead

i still don’t know what
to do with that,
so i get up when my alarm
goes off and make coffee

there’s a hole in the heel
of one sock, in the toe of
another, and it’s a shock
when the cold wooden floor
hits my skin, still sleep-warm

and i could **** the socks,
though i’m only pretending to
know how, or simply throw them away,
but it feels like i wore those socks
the last time we breathed the
same air, yanno

i’m not looking for metaphors
or signs this time, injecting meaning
where there isn’t any

you’re not the bird at my
window, because i left some cashews
and walnuts on the sill

and that’s not really you,
standing on the corner as the
bus passed, but i thought that it
was for a split second and had to
stop myself from pulling the cord,
jumping off and calling a stranger
by your name

but i wore the same corduroy pants
and black vest with the gold swirls
as the same day we met, when i
no-showed that one time, and still
haven’t fully forgiven myself for it,
though i’d like to think that you would,
that you could

and it’s your birthday,
and you’re dead

and i keep meaning to bake you
a cake, and i’m sorry
that i haven’t yet

up before the sun,
walking under the softening
glow of a dotted moon,
already light down on the
street, yet still dark where the
light pollution can’t reach

and i want to be there,
almost desperately,
let’s go back to that spot
near the powerlines and
gravel roads, feel that
buzz in your molars

there’s a crackle in the air,
and we’re not far enough away
from the rest of it to find those
wild horses just yet,
but the bird call and chatter is
a **** good substitute

and i want to take a snapshot of you,
silhouetted by splash of sunrise
across the sky, something to keep
in the pocket of my jeans like a
polaroid, creased from running my
thumb across the surface

my hands do not shake this time,
firm grip on the shovel and
graveyard dirt on my boots,
sweat stained leather jacket collar

but i forget the thick gloves,
like i forget the bandana,
and that dirt clogs my lungs
as blood drip drip drips from
the torn skin of my palms

and i’m still not sure if
all this digging,
and digging,
and digging,
is to unearth or to bury

haunted by the ghost of the
girl i used to know,
the girl i used to be

breath comes out harsh,
a dancing ghost amongst the pines,
and i am rot waiting to happen,
washed in gold by the sunrise

i am the choke-chain,
and the tender hand,
the dog that bites the hand
that both beat me and loved me,
and i am rot waiting to happen

and i lived through who i was
to become who i am,
but sometimes even that looks like
asking myself what harm just one
more time could do, and remembering
those six years, where i started as a boy,
and stopped as a man

and i am a sinner,
with this shovel in my bleeding hands,
not quite stigmata, though the stained glass
in the skin of my knees begs to differ

and i am a sinner,
because i lived,
because i am both the haunted,
and the haunter,
the girl that grew into a man

and if we’re going to sin,
then let us sin wholly,
then let us sin holy

i put on my cooking bandana,
the black and white one this time,
blue fabric gone soft and threadbare
from the cycle of wash/rinse/repeat,
and i make pasta

my hands do not shake,
using serrated knife to carve
chicken breast, maybe thigh,
into small chunks

tofu, broccoli, salt go into
a small *** together,
chicken in the oven,
water for spiral pasta boiling

i briefly wish for good crusty bread,
salad greens, maybe a bottle of
cheap, sweet wine, split by two

this love language with nowhere
else to go, no one readily available
to nourish, and i resent, fleetingly,
the day or two of leftovers

belly full of good pasta,
lump in my throat,
loneliness like a promise,
like an old friend

and i do not cry into the sink
full of ***** dishes, hot soapy water
and the music turned up real loud

i don’t cry into the sink
full of ***** dishes,
i don’t
i don’t
i don’t

heartache, grief, longing,
that ache of want, of wanting
mostly empty flask in hand,
too much of one thing and
not quite enough of another

cast in shadows against the
brilliance of the setting sun,
this wild thing in the shape
of a man goes out into the
vast desert to remember his
own name, again

there’s a choke-chain, and
perhaps worse, a tender hand,
still trying to puzzle out
which he deserves more

tattered long coat like the
wings of a black bird flapping
behind, voice stolen by the
howling wind, the snarling of
beasts wilder yet than him

finishes off the last drops
in the flask with coffee from
a dented tin mug, wonders how
far he must go, to find that
which he yearns for

still trying to puzzle that one
out, too, but feels like it may
be somewhere beyond the
horizon line, like taking a step
forward and tipping into
something that hurts just
a little bit less

wonders, still, if he’d even know
how to deal with that, now,
wonders if he’s allowed to want
something else than cold desert
nights and that black boneyard dog,
nipping at his heels

wonders if there’s a metaphor,
within the choke-chain and
the gentle hand

and maybe his name is where
it’s always been, tucked behind
breastbone, nestled in sinew,
in that feeling of walking up
creaky porch steps, just knowing
that light will have been left on

and maybe he’s not doomed by
the narrative, hell, maybe he’s not
doomed at all

you leave the clothes that
i loaned you, folded neatly on
the bed, and i buy you
a toothbrush

for the first time in
almost two years, i have
someone to text that
i’m on my way home from
work, and ****, i missed that

and the door is unlocked,
this time, but that’s okay
because that means you’ll
be there to grin up at me
from the blanket nest on
the kitchen floor, and ask
me how work was

i thought about you,
while peeling potatoes,
like taking you out to
dinner and a movie,
walking you to the door after

and i’m not writing a love
story here, just trying to
convey that you are known,
and seen, and loved

and my hands are a little shaky now,
but i’m still pretty handy with a needle,
so won’t you let me sew your most jagged edges down?