In time
I make it out of the arms
of my trailer park childhood
and into a resting silence.
In the desert
I am dripping blood
onto the things I own
from the inside of memories.
I grow older
and forget the bottoms of lakes.
I grow older
and forget the bottoms of lakes.
So,
I will move to the city
where I tell everyone
that I don't make company with ghosts;
that I haven't carved
photographs and heirlooms
from my spine when no one was looking.
How I never think about
your head on her pillow,
still.
My silence will rest on you,
gouge holes in the months
spent wandering through the east
with no mouth to speak.
I thought that you would
teach me how to speak,
my mouth to your ear
in such a tangled honesty.
But instead I sit dumb and dark,
waiting for you to reach me.