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.
as I search
the mirror
for the size
of god’s
fingernail, a hair
of mine
goes grey
your son’s disorder
is used
by some
to draw
a straight line, a sleeping
circle…
–
my soul is eating all my food
–
agenesis
of what
of nostalgia’s
panic
sister
she bleeds
in the bath
thinking
we’ve finally
run out
of water.
of the cheering
mothers, my mean
ass
mother
wants to be alone
with the two
it took
to cut a baby
in half.
myself
I take it on the nose
the baseball
my father
doesn’t
crush.
the woman who doesn’t believe in light
can fix your mouth
–
I have no double
to love
my triple
–
the man with no teeth
borrows
a ladder
while my mother
swims
in the lake
where my father
learned
to coexist
with his ability
to be
alone,
to which
my father
brought
the seashell
his father
coined
the ocean’s
bible,
I sleep
the sleep
of my hair
not the sleep
of its brush
I am too wrapped up in my own stomach
to visit the mother
who worships
mine
the nonfiction section in my father’s library of sleep
is faith
–
mother comes to me in a dream to tell me she’s thinking of pulling out
–
epilepsy isn’t something you can see. clearly, it’s the snake
one tries to give it to
–
when people are gone, they’ve gone to ask
brother masturbates with an almost invisible dedication.
mother
yells
from the river
that all rain
is highway
robbery.
while reciting
proverbs
for mitochondria
I pass the time
wearing
my father’s
shoes
for the footsteps
in his head.
