They Will Do The Things1. They Will Find YouThey Will Do The Things
They will find your house. [your street is programmed to their minds] They will find the silvered treasures kept in simulated secrecy behind your vanity. They will find the moonbeams tucked gently beneath your pillowcase and the monogamous magic slipped inside your closet.
They will find your whispers even though they are as incoherent as your thoughts. And they will find the second-hand smiles you inconspicuously display.
And they will find you - amoung a sputter-and-flicker of
broken words,
broken lights,
&
TrenchfootYour darkness translates to stillness toTrenchfoot
quietness to loneliness. You’re kicked out
of the house on Prospect Street, Nighthawks
filling the air about you. You throw out the
Tylenol and the empty Coke bottles and the
poems I sent you when we thought forever
didn’t have an end. Your lids press tight
against your ballooning eyes and there is
no more room in the dumpster for your
heart because isn’t that just trash, too?
The way even your dirty blood is too scared to
pass through the filthy ventricles and arteries
and the soot-filled walls of
This is For YouThis is for the boy with the cracks on his hands and a splintering face, the lovely girl feeling not-so-lovely anymore-This is For You
the boy with his hands locked high over his head, unlock them. Unlock doubt and inhibitions-
For the girl who said THIS IS MY FIRST SCAR. like she wanted more to come-
For the man who knew that if there ever was a time to seize the day, that time was here and now and never. That time was her
snow-white blouse against her snow-white skin and her fingers trickling down his spine-
I see the world through your hands, your fingertips, your
Outside His Window.She was thirteen-years-young or getting there, standing quiet by the rush of traffic and breath. Her milky legs stretched on for days and her skin rippled against the current of a morning winter breeze. Her hair was a mess of browns and bokeh, and the snow sprinkled across the wilted grass matched her hands.Outside His Window.
She waited [each morning she waited] and I watched. Every day I watched, my serrated breaths fogging the glass. At 7:05 she walks out her front door. 17 steps to the sidewalk. 36 steps to the stop sign outside my bedroom window. And then she waits – average time 5 minutes and 36 seconds. Her downsized hands are prone to
SacredShe’s stealing from e.e. (most beautiful darling)Sacred
and as her words echo, already said, I see Him pulling prayer from her mouth and throat and clasped hands in hopes
of sin purged. She swallows sacrament,
unaware of the grace held inside the crusts
of stale bread. Father blesses her, forehead-chest-shoulder-shoulder,
and she wonders how he doesn’t notice she is already blessed: her
body, her adoration, the way she
doesn’t need a God to know she is
sacred.
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