nose made love to knees
but it was all the same
the way you pronounced it
the red wax trickled
down your cheek bones
onto the cotton
stained and smothered
like children's faces
rubbed into piles of
rotten berries
"how do you think
jam is made?"
father says
as he zips his fly
and puts the button
back where it
should have been
always been
mother lynched the sheets
but rubbing out the scratches
was hard
even with all the matches
she used
sulfur caked into hair
so many wishless birthdays
dried icing
tracing out
the knife blade
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Riot Makes Wishes at 11:12
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