Of this, we dream, over and over. Some
Imagination, the wounding of scars, lilies pried open and sand
For nectar
Over and over, mechanical loop
Of soft tissue and gears
Bloody wire and the aching of teeth, as if
Swelling the tongue brings a measure easily
Defined and succinct
As is praying, over and over
Makes it true
And licks it all clean

Anxious and excited, she told us her tooth was loose. Over and over to the hallway mirror, checking on it. I’m sure she kept pressing her tongue against it, absentmindedly and often, the way we all do with the gaps.
And then the next day, popped right out of her mouth at the arcade.
We left her a coin from the other side of the world under her pillow.
My little girl, I can’t stop you while you forge on ahead. Can I at least hold your hand?

I have no poetry, ach my love how can I explain. I have only chattering and faceless voices that tune in and out from somewhere very far until they rush upon me and all the world is made of glass and skittering I try to capture it or them. Or I used to.

we found it all quite remarkable, the brokenness of him, the spittle and the remorse, the mockery of all that he was, the stain of his children, the wounds of his wife. he sits on the porch and writes and abuses himself. he is all abuse. little kindness left, selfish mongrel. and the air he breathes, cool and dry in the midst of a full blown summer, reminds him of a time where he was alive and she was alive and their days were long and they had their future ahead of them and he was pure and uneventful.
but instead, instead, instead.

a certain kind of weakness, of despair. an undefinable ache that resists medication. and the urge to remain immobile, to engorge yourself, to keep your self filthy.
at any given point, the mirror stares back. and somehow, somehow, you move through the day. untouchable, unreachable, inconsolable.