-
in a childhood bug book
I keep dog-eared, water-stained hopes
the nighttime silhouettes heaving
hands like bricks on my chest
the smell of pineapple rain
when my wet face stuck to your t-shirtunfurl those back pages
I remember the best kisses like
a battery on my tongue
electric, then the pastor forbade it
or, the husband leaves 13 voicemails
if that was so good, why am I the same?an elder bartender
and my father
placed their hand on my shoulder
as my wet face licked the piano keys
under the table, unchewed
all those little blue pills in the vomitI love all my companions
standing with nets
waiting for bugs
so I can name them
for free -
I hate that you have no answers
but I also hate good cops looking for excuses
pour the heavy molasses of my unrequited grief
into your fillable chest
then hang up sweet iron cathartic
fist fight on our tonguesDo you call me to hear them?
in between the waves of repeating myself
a screeching cry cracks apologies
in choking sobs, there they flash,
a little girl, color on all she touched
the little boy with his wheel on the edgeYou get what you’re giving yet
You keep staring, I haven’t spoken yet
I can’t unsilence until your inner child
is satisfied with my teeth
cutting your little face
enough to tell the truth from reality
