Returning to the ghosts
of my worst years
my branding moments
the growing pains
that left me lanky and flaccid
and I come down the winding stairs
of the estate
Landscaping
cadavers in the clearing
orange flag markers in the mud
of my fat
To be the putty scraped on the door mat
before she steps inside
I let her into my mind
she told me I need
help.
I laughed like
“Couldn’t you tell?”
I love like
wet stones in hell
I repent
all the years
slurping out of
malaria puddle
I dream of a different suburban wetland
a frigid lack of inspiration
and weathered skill
here I am,
some pitiful sponge
sliding race track straws
up my pucker fish
to find a spine
to graze her cheeks
hold her close
as she chews on the palm of my hand
hacking bread knives in the kitchen
four fingers down, a thumb left.
What else could I possibly give?
