Family, an Ars Poetica
The soup in the pot boils thicker than blood.
In the kitchen the mother melts in her martyrdom.
My father a portal in which I crossed over and now am lost.
Son of a ravenous boar and a volatile mare.
Boy folded into an accordion.
Everyone else is guitar, hollowed, shipwrecked.
Brothers of pigeon feet, sisters with rabbit hands.
A troika can be family; the trinity is blessed family.
Catholicize the mysteries and misdeeds of parents.
How grossness traverses the plain sight of the canopy.
Orchards, littered with carnivorous creatures, fermenting rotting fruits.
I feed on gruel from the cups of my hands, which is never enough.
The occupied space carries the departed spaces.
The range of gradation radiates catastrophically.
Hence, I swing the pendulum.
String words to recreate my long-dead father.
Search for those who flowered from the same womb.
I return to the house of collapsed selves where I unearthed the poem that taught me how to love,
how to conjure a thing from within the body when the body’s invisible.
I then take the libertine road of the familiar to find the narrow route to a dawning.
In the aversion of blood there prevails the chosen family.about the author