MINDING SHELL ROUGHAGE ON THE BOOKCASE
Once agitated exhale in the dark. Cat the color of oak said another dream about mother. Lost in the shoulder, little did we know our needs were always parallel. It’s what I said before. Fuck your injury, it could be from anything. You never said what.
I guess she died. Everything that remains is gentle, by accident. This is my pose. This is what it looks like to delete something and still look forward. Like posting on a horse. The labor it takes to remain.
Instead of planting seeds I arranged a circle of heirlooms. Quiet’s habit all of a sudden narrow, streaming. There was blood because there is always blood when someone you cannot see wants you to speak up. I shared with them my song. It kept us in the center of the basin all night.
And then not a sound.
On the jerking cusp of the world I stay up too late. Mostly thinking about how I don’t want to be prayed for when I die, how I'd rather be grabbed out of death by the most warm familiar hands and choked back into life.