by Warren C. Longmire
And here’s to disastrous news and the grace
of each arc of decay:
An ejaculate of oil burps from a crack in the earth. Some
laughter pierces a distant uncle’s funeral, harsh and young.
Your boyish spectrum blooms through jean skirts. My toy
microscope was stacked with grass, scab and boogie slides. Later,
high, I ate from a witch’s hand an offering of wicked brand beer
and acorn meat. Despite hollowed gates opening, windows always
tempted us a jump. Last weekend, I watched you watch my back
pickle. My memories of bodies somersaulting slowed and enjoyed
their descent. This mess. Scuffed feet stains overrunning my bath tub. A
patch of toothpaste on the lip of your sink calcifies. A humid fall squats
dense on our chests at four in the morning. We play 20 questions
into the night.
– It’s an object the size of your face.
– It’s a place that no longer exists.
– A web of silk the small thing worries into.
– A mudslide with us there gasping fiercely one last time.