Family, an Ars Poetica

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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.