I Found Hiding is a Darker Thing That Keeps Us.
I found a phone that only rings in blacked noise.
I found myself in a friend’s jeans, then his hand.
I found my father asleep. I broke him into bread.
I found mother with a cock in her mouth. Laugh.
I found for the first time the ornament of tongue.
I found knowing is an attic fire that reclaims us.
I found myself, folded, gray, softer, focus on dead.
I found a finger in a jam jar. Loss is too full of itself.
I found my father’s knuckles tasted of hate, prayer.
I found him tongueless, ornamented in thick black.
I found him waiting in rooms made smaller by him.
I found this is the place where I throat my silence.
I found my son in a thicket. Half-thorned/throned.
I found bolt-cutters. I feel better now about mercy.
I found prostration. Still, now, I’ve not apologized.
I found all I’ve needed in the air’s nicked wounds.
I found all I’ve needed in a truck stop bathroom.
I found my want for crucifixion is how I make love.about the author