Yes, she is coming,
The moribund is upon her, opened, above.
Her tale is no river, is not even told.
Lie to pawn and she will shatter,
Yes, she is here,
If you must eat, she will feed you words
Her lips are not sweeping. Wander, you promised,
Otherworld, enter. If you must fail, explore.
Yes, she is leaving,
The hunger is knowing neglect, and collecting.
Her refuge is not you, never almost.
Lurk, she will look. Speak, she will seem.
We must have missed the June bugs that year,
They would always swarm into the Florida room
This is the room we lived in, even if the neighbors could see
This is not the room we died in.
We died in the kitchen with our hands to the stove,
Our mother, like her mother before her, tucked her body
And as our exposed bodies slowly froze, starting with our hair,
Her knees became her stomach and her elbows grew into her feet,
Let’s dress our wounds in tongues, brother,
I have gone months without speaking your name,
It is too late to kiss and make better.
That street of concrete alcoves, we hid beneath,
A glimpse of throat, a hint of a fracture;
Once you would have lied to me, brother.
Don’t punish me with your privilege.
Your hands were caught inside me, yanking tendons.
Someday you will know where my hands have been,
Sinuous nursling, you have always made me shiver.