a small fire
in the room
with all
the pigs.
a school
without
a shooting.
I can’t make heads or tails of your fervor. I can’t make body. I put a hole in my father and through it watch my mother eat her weight in god. I want what my siblings have. each other, game shows, memory. indigenous amnesia.
to jump
the dream
of audience
that buried
my father’s
rib
I stand
on an operating table
in a circus
tent
and invite
my mother
to believe
all earthquakes
belong
to satan
and not
to the devil
my sister
was
when high
on the body, its boneless
forgetting
the give in my tooth makes me think my father has two left hands.
the give
in my brother’s
brings me
to the tree
that took
his last. to that day
he sang
god is glove
to the hose
that broke
my mother. I am at the end of my blood.
there’s a rareness
to him
not many
see.
owl moon
& ghost
vowel
I am born
back to back…
god removes the mirror from my mother’s mirage
zookeeper reads obituary
was the fruit
made them want
teeth
I’m here for the music
–
you can keep
your baby
I’m here
for the swing
–
I write
on the days
my son
is sick
–
if heard
I overhear
there was more
to him
in the womb
–
no dream is strong enough to put a hospital
on the map
–
in heaven
the past
is the present
that left
for earth
I feel nothing
for her
but also
nothing
but-
she is
then
a writer, partial
to now, and to now’s
book.
is
then
prayer, loyal
to the past
most
current, to the believer
who contacts
touch.
kingsoftrain 