Aching purple, the swollen eye winces
away from even delicate touch.
A bygone graze strikes the nerve endings
with vigor, erupting the past.
Like a maimed cat, I do not aim to die
but scrap, with fingers cut to knuckles
and blood soaked rags having wept
their secrets down the drain, wet.
If I could ball your head into a different shape,
take these memories and use them as a gag
they would call me Guantanamo. The great
gash soaking through your clothes as if
double dutch isn't how we jump roped that one
autumn into oblivion.
You can have the house, and the street, and
the whole side of town. But you can't have me
wishing for anything other than your death.
The people of the marsh tell me:
Josiah, tour the gas station sandwiches
and take your leave,
wrap up your wounds and walk towards that
empty feeling in your stomach.
Don't stop to wonder whether regret tastes like
anything other than longing.
Don't shed a feather until you're done popping
your ears.
With an eye to see and a heart to match,
light the path with fireflies
and leave a little extra on the table
because
You never know a thing about belts
until you become a child.
You never know a thing about welts
until you're prepared to die.
