Category Poetry

I run from the wound causing

mayhem along the causeway of my mind

a hole in the mattress

deep as I’d dug it

These wounds will bubble over
and grow, running in the streets
consuming. Everything.

When body is considered landscape
and maps are considered time, we can feel what can’t be found

That year we learned.
D’Nealian forms; the tinny reek
of Salisbury steak, the scorched
tomato-sugar sauce on square-cut crust;

After we’d killed the deer out on the highway
the cows would stop me staring, how their hides,
blotched like world maps

I used to think a green room was where jealous people went

It’s the part of farming he despises, which is why he leaves it to others.

            her mother asked…

“does he smell arab?”

yet in a sound of great washing
like upward rain
up they all go as winged shit
or a flock of swallows