everything i say should be taken with a grain of a salt
and a shot of tequila
rotten apple smash
no comfort anywhere, blunt and stupid, cored out rotten apple rolling onto the highway, crushed and smashed to chips for little hands, nimble fingers, no muscle, all bone, gingerly picking them up, juice running down a toothless grin
chill sets in
chill sets in the bone to prickle the skin alive
forearm i-ching
grit of a scab to be picked with fingers callused and bruised
the i-ching in his forearm says, and you’d do it again to feel anything
pattern recognition cracks the night a kaleidescope of skin and rust
muzzle
“Take us under, now” -The Frames, “Dream Awake”
we force limbs into our words, packed, bulging and something spirals out
twine wrapped between clenched teeth, unravels a distance from the tongue
and desire, hung out and tied tight behind the skull, a muzzle
to curb the instinct of chewing through our own hands
nothing more truer now
nothing more truer now,
our breathing’s done, his dying’s done, your lying’s done, her crying’s done.
nothing more truer now,
your hope is done, her fear is done, our faith is done, his pain is done.
nothing more truer now,
her season’s done, our night is done, his hour is done, your moment is done.
nothing more truer now,
he is done, you are done, she is done, we are done.
the rain spills
and the rain spills from the sky to quench our thirst, we choke but we do not drown. rain seeps up from the ground to our ankles, our feet drenched but we cannot move, to our knees and still we cannot move. rain bubbles up above our foreheads, tables move, chairs move, scraps of notes scrawled with something we meant to say to one another. rain floods out the windows, the roof breaks open to the sky, and we stay at the bottom, scrambling for the floor and still we do not drown.
out of proportion
you figure yourself out
of one thing and into another, fashion
yourself with gestures, try your new self out
for size. it all seems out of proportion.
you’ve been much too good at this,
fashioning your anger into something
new. drawing blood, drawing on paper, drawing
breath. your son’s fingers clasp at the space
the air makes between your chest
and his lips. your daughter cuts through
the room like a sprite laughing
at a funeral. you figure yourself into her
laughter, squeeze yourself
into his fist. it is all out of proportion.
out of figuring the size of the ball of your fist
to his own, your knuckles turn white, nails dig in
an impression into your palm. your daughter
rushes to a full stop, holds her hair back, bends
to kiss your son. the gesture leaves you
raw, the base of your spine aches,
your son’s limbs come to rest on your ribs.
figuring where to go
next, smoke leaves your mouth
gasping.
hold you still
you cannot unwind longing
or ignore the body
in motion, the movement a pair
of hands make to hold you
still
every word cast
and every word cast from our mouths, be it a stone hurled
through the window of their expectations or a precious gift
to be unwrapped by nervous hands or a spike meant to be driven
through thick skin, travels with momentum, travels and makes things
break, makes things out of thin air, makes the difference
between us and them, between mattering and disappearing
we owe the people that love us, not the other way around