Sunday, December 3, 2017

You Are Always Here —> x

When you’re walking down the street
holding your life like a nothing-balloon
above your head, your allegiance
to the fork is unassailable.

I was never so spatially challenged
that I couldn’t find anything better
than an axe in a liquor store.
I was never that naïve.
I believe in my own disbelief.
I believe in a few things of my own losing.

I believe in the acne-scarred skin
of the orange I dig my thumbs into
on a Saturday afternoon, the accidental claw
of the cat leaping from my lap, the oxygen tent
in which lies crash-damaged the alien

that used to be my father. The radio
issuing a burbling stream of alphabet
over my cupped hands. And yet
I thirst. There’s something
I never said before, there must be.

I imagine all the children I never had
thanking me for sparing them this life
my kiss of death. You’re welcome, I whisper,
and pull the darkness back
over their bright little heads, still singing.

Oh my darling Brussels sprouts!

The moon,
bitter as an aspirin.

My black lips
talking
talking like this without me.

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