Concept:
youlovemeback.
The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.
There is
a
strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.
My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.
Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.
Sometimes,
I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***.
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted
wrong.
I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes
with mime,
I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.
Concept:
trytounderstand
This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so
The chatter goes.
Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and
an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.
Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.
Free at long, long last.
Concept:
fixtheheart