the hunchback moves with the pews alongside children and their man who, stiffening under his corduroy, sits behind his services. so lost in a translation and a tot. hunched, i could wail the miracle of touching in the blind.
beneath the steeple, i am told, dirt in the eye makes it whole. beneath the scabbed ground, are families who wore denim even in portraits even when mangled with steel on the interstate. above, i am so very lonely.
i am told they were buried in pairs. the children’s man tells me the caskets were closed for the service. i want to tell him i never asked. nevertheless, he involves himself with the bodies like a shard in the night. he and the tender middle, pinned among ashes and ashes.
(oh god can you see
and your shepherd’s hand heading down to meet it?)
the hunchback under paper bedsheets is a behemoth of all exterior. touch him, tangle with it. peeled open to the innards, and in resignation, there are sadder truths under the skin. small as nail clippings on the linoleum and me tossing myself onto the spike.
in whatever misshapen ****** i barter, i know i still breathe like you do. placing it all here, then, at the holy foot of every physicality i am mangled with, it is a simple confession-
that you can’t know how this could be tears me apart.