There was mention of things about unsated ambition and presidency,
curing human conditions and sealing hunger in cork and clayed jars,
marking pathwork and casting footsteps trod in mud for posterity's sake,
charting courses and arcs and orbits amongst celestial bodies
like mother writing yellow paper glue backed notes and sticking them
in your backpack so you can know what to tell Ms. Neely when
she's ready to take you home because it's not a sleepover,
and I hung my head a little lower because
all I wrote was the word
wanderlust.
original works of parts
You'd Better Die Outright (I look forward to torturing you when you can no longer take care of yourself)
what kind of nerve
is tickled by
breaking a body
not a fistful of years to this Earth.
Is it that
the only thing capable of
bringing your blood to your skin
was breaking the vessels in mine
Or was it more
to do with the fragment of a
person you married
gutted
skinned
upholstered
stuffed with Bible verses and
fixed upon a laundry horse
and called a wife? The sex
must have been painful
for the both of you
when you realized
the only words dribbling out of the hole in its face
were the same
drops of rhetoric
you spat into it.
You told me last year
that I was not a person,
that I am an appendage belonging to you.
I want to feel
there was nothing more than
simple, respectable, hate
in being dragged to my feet by a wrist until it bruised
when legs could not endure the blows back then, but
I am more certain in every passing year
that it was your way
to masturbate
without offending Jesus.
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