BACK ALLEY 15

we call em track marks for a reason

jeans low-slung like

the power lines at this edge of the city. you tell me when it was really bad you used to

search the sidewalks here for cigarette butts &

suck to see what was left of them --

eyes cold & flat & looking past mine, but

i can see in your hands that you aren't lying. when your body is the only thing left,

it shows: skin clinging on in a death grip (your mother's

at the ER bedside),

your whole body crumpling with the force of

a soul derailing, merciless as a bullet train.

seeing the bloody body from the platform's edge

must feel a lot like this. i pick my gaze through

the slaughter, searching for something to salvage.

plead with remains, the way you used to,

but i too find nothing left.