the only histories you thought possible hurt, so your futureswere just bruises waiting to bloom until you saw bruises not givenby fathers for the first time. sometimes in summertime, boys gatheredbehind barns after work & fought. there was no understanding yetof the masculine form. the boys who hadn’t been beaten had fistsof sugar & threw …
you tried to breathe as your hands drowned in their salt-cured prayerswhile your father stood over you & considered the rum-rotted thoughtof how much hurt would be enough, as if it were your body & notyour mind that was plastic. but you’re never more porous than as a child& you took so much from your …
while collecting bones & grief’s secrets in the brackish shoals,you found a bottle buried among the muddy sand & broke the cork’ssalt-crystal seal. the floral flight of honey filled you, broke upyour childhood’s iodine brine. you anointed a hand withthe sweet stuckness & considered the way the light held you—untilyour hand’s halo disintegrated as a …