Your home in the City of the Pyramids: for reservations – that is, SUBMISSIONS – PLEASE EMAIL HERE
I will go to the spring
where you slip away to fill your jar
everyone at the market and me by the tree
Knowing a father’s belt has snap-
ping metal teeth, one does not
have to think of kneeling.
One kneels. One kneels
to please before the word is
heard or the leather tongue
slides drily through the loops.
You said: I’m still here. I just don’t know what to say. But two weeks later, you were gone. And now I sit, words turned stale upon the page. Seems I’ve been here for months, rending sentences into syllables. Senseless. Torn and patched in vain.
I’m still here and you’re still gone.
You said: I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to live. But we didn’t want to hear, for fear your fear would unmask our own. We left you to your silent pain—let it erode the edges of your reserves, like waves, ceaseless, beating the shore—bruising, breaking your brash, butch swagger. Leaving fragments and splinters of you.
Bewildered, bipolar & blue.