We’re seven babies away from god finding out that no one has heard the ocean. I say pain has an angel and you say it has a ghost. We eat for the last time. Some blank grief that not even a mother would save from a staring contest. I eat like a devil. You like a devil on a skateboard crying over the death of a ribless boy. Poverty is neither dream nor transport. I step on a nail in my scarecrow puberty and you bend yourself to rabbit, grocery cart, wheelchair. I run the shower and say things about your body into a coffee can. Birth is wrong about people.
kingsoftrain 
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