my father pries his brother up from the floorboards with a tire iron, he rolls him
tight like ruined carpet, drives to the train tracks
and leaves him on the side, thinks
maybe now he will stay in one place, thinks,
maybe now i can be free, feels
guilty for the thought.
my father, always feeling guilty for
hiding it away like a christmas gift in the attic
and hacking it apart in the garage while everyone
sleeps, i am always
hacking it apart in the garage
while everyone sleeps.
we are growing nothing but salt in this garden,
the field still feels like home, absent, gaping, dry
as bleached bones. hiding it
like a bullet hole in the ribs, ready to reveal
at the climax, look!
i have been bleeding
the entire time, look!
everything dismantled, breathing in fragments,
breathing in steps, consciously
my father pries up his brother, moths
post like sentinels in the seams of my apartment, look!
my biopic written in insect wings, look! no hands,
I can finally do this with no hands.