In poems, I can never say it straight and it’s exhausting.
Instead of #$@&%*!
,
I say, this morning the sidewalk was littered with dead pigeons, I say
my gutters were packed with flightless things. the neighborhood was pillow stuffing
I say,
This Halloween, every keyboard will become a wailing wall, and every granola crumb a folded plea,
I say,
If I can bring myself to leave it, every day after will be Ascension.
I say,
the sidewalk is littered with dead doves and slain utility poles. i reach into my kidneys and pull what can’t be passed. She doesn’t even notice that all the channels are down.
How many times will I tell the sun to Fuck off when I really mean
you don’t even miss me at night?
The sidewalk is littered with dead children. She reaches into her esophagus, that wet tunnel, that slick pink and pulls what can’t be passed.
In poems, I can never say it straight and
It’s so fucking exhausting.