What You Call a Thing
Without the adventof Stockholm Syndrome,how could I havelearned to love myself
so much? I’m asking Godand New York, can anyonehelp me? (An all-but-audible
“or else.”) The captain’s chair:it’s beginning to smella little too much like me. Again.But there must be more
punishing consequencesimaginable, right? I noticed,for example, you know
the one, a boy prying his waythrough the trash piles along the river,looking a lot like the last timeI saw you, but blind
instead of dead. (I dugmy own grave; I used itfor someone else). And there it is:
When all you know is the woods,every controlled burn is a forest fire.Or it matters what you call a thing.But not for very long.
Care Package
I dredge my name out of the sand. What of it.I jam my hands into my pockets.When they catch me…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2018