Posted on January 1st, 2017
The feeling inside was powder and flame
in the gun of my throat.
I didn’t know how to shape my fingers ‘round your wrists
so that you’d understand.
When I said ribbons yellow and turn,
what I meant was the village burned. Here,
below our feet.
In the smoke, the sound was a fast hand erasing.
That winter, the sky was so very white
and nothing changed
you became this other in a flash of rapid oxidation: too
like the whole world: where nothing
could be counted
* * *
When I broke the jar, it was because I threw it at the floor.
Or it was because a dark creature inside that needed stopping
had welled up,
place your mouth over mine.
Seal this hole. Give me a pill. Give me
for P.C., with thanks