Saturday, February 5, 2011


Grease and yellow and flake
print your front door
and your mother
whispers in the bedroom.
When you let me in
the locust in my middle
sheds it’s skin -
a brittle and dry fiberglass mold
a firecracker spent
premature on Independence Day.
You teach me
to pick ticks off
one at a time.
Line them up
stab and squeeze blood out.
You pull my hangnail with your teeth
and tell about your dad
who came home drunk and pissed
on the living room floor.
Last night my father
called you a punk
and I know
I won’t stop now
even if I want to.

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