Audio: Read by the author.

Was born a shamble. Was raised, as many, by a marrow a follow.
Made first fortune before first word. Had it made. Follow left

The house each morning. Marrow worked to the bone. One
Sinister, one borrow I loved more than my own stalled self;

Early knew for certain one tomorrow I’d make a great ain’t. I
Lived from we to we. Tried to save my crumpled singles. Put on

A bold lip, pulled firm on my love like hinging down
A set of attic stairs. What a racket. What a small cord

Attaches us. My heart, still the spelling bee I throw each time
On purpose: we had words, then slept like ice in the slit

Of a tucked top sheet. After a spell, sure I slow-ached, sulked
My way awake. Once upon a table: coffee with chicory make-

Shift bliss. My eyes, bigger than blue-plates—truth, it was almost
Too much to swallow. Took it to go. Clocked myself out. A time

Or two had my lights knocked out, my knee socks knocked off,
But soft. But still—a ceiling fan, a sill, a souse who hung

On my every world. No two ways about it; I fell for us, hot
Mussed as all get out. Took my Eastern time across to the Pacific,

Doubled down doubled back. Put my face in the path
Of another’s full-palmed slap—struck by how dumb I was

Struck. Inked myself clear until I was sure as sure was
Numb. Got my house in order but never quite could give up

The drink, the way it confects me, the way I stay spoked
With what wrecks me. Curled myself all the way inside

The inside of our last joke, the punched line we lured
The most, as thicket as our thievery, our ashed plot

Unfallowing me like a neck’s own woods toward a choice
Choke of light: I can’t imagine, I reckon I can only imagine.

LEAVE A REPLY