Spring 2012
I don’t know if I’ve written anything without changing the details.
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The scream hangs in the past, in the present, and those years between.
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I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.
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I want you enough to gnash you into a silence made from pieces of silver.
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I grip the handlebar and pin my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable crash.
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He greets you with a kiss and marries your elbow to walk the path.
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She holds the shirt to her face and inhales. With a start she pulls away.
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