I put a make believe woman through hell.

I worship the devil.
I worship the devil because my dog drowns in a water bowl.

I pass the time writing holy, holy.  

I condemn my body
as I need  
proof.  

I say to a particular no one a boy after my own heart.

I’m not sure what makes mother power off the television.
she moans afterward as if it is the great work of her neck.  

I keep an appointment to be blinded by a window washer.

every other word of my father’s autobiography
    is not so strange.

if I hadn’t ****** myself in second grade, Hector might have.
his brothers would’ve beaten him.  his unborn sister
would’ve been premature
on purpose.

    I can count on your hand the Hectors we know.

it could be that mother worries we are wildlife.
she wrote once

    depression is a dog whistle.  I missed dinner sounding it out.

between me and you, you’re the private
sort
of person
women
like.