January 2010
10 posts
I want only to be devoured
like snow
fed to the mouths
of children’s fists.
-J. Morrill
Here’s the trick to eating a soul:
you have to melt it down first,
separate gospel prayers from pentagram promises,
boil the mass of ache, stone, and love at 357 degrees Fahrenheit,
set the gas clicking to work, water-down the snow chunks,
take a salty lick and remember
that first kiss
when you forgot how close two faces had to be,
when you forgot how much heat two bodies could...
Room 116.
My father is ill. He is an eighty pound skeleton. Skin whiter than bedsheets, Hair graying at the tips. He hasn’t eaten in months. His lips are wavering caterpillars Housing yellowed teeth and a fat tongue That can’t hold back the onslaught of vomit, And coffee, and swearing. And his stomach is tiny, It is too tired to digest. My mother is a mess. She goes days without sleep And lies...