The Car Accident
The widow won’t cross the road
where her husband waits
under a blooming willow.
The breeze gives her a nudge
and whispers in her ear
“It’s alright, dear. It’s time”
The Car Accident
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WHAT THE TWEET COULD NOT FIT
The first weeks of school the sourness
of his sheets crowded our whole room.
I could smell them from my side.
He left his eyebrow
hairs like lonely commas in our sink.
I tried to ignore him. I tried.
He pawed at my cake, at the wax droplets and all,
stole the day off “Birthday.”
My mom made my favorite,
drove hours to give it to me.
I’d have given him a piece if he’d asked.
If he’d just asked, I might have even said
Sure, you can film me, whatever.
The steady green light,
a part of me knew.
End of summer, end of home.
Mom drove me to every major bridge in this city
so I could pretend I’d become
an engineer, an architect, some day.
Now I search for handholds that aren’t crusted with birdshit.
This bridge trembles, arches up to midnight.
Mom remains amidst this crisp metal.
Rust in my mouth that whole last day.
Trucks rattle across the sky.
This city fans out before me, tenses my legs
as if to stop the wind from pushing me
into what I already want to do.
Heat mirages hover by the bridge’s entrance.
Summer’s gone. You can smell it on the wind.
If he wanted to film me he could have asked.
I killed that second time.
The first step into the singing wind
I’ll become a dove in the updraft,
a flash of iridescence, pigeon purple,
my sneakers, seagull white.
Will I drown first, my ribs accordioning into themselves?
Or will pylons impale me?
I only ever wanted to hold another boy,
to feel his life pump into mine.
He didn’t even own a razor,
chin softer than this clanging wind.
Now he and I have gone viral,
so many hits per day.
How many hits until you’re dead?
How many moments until I become
the breath of this wind, the roll of that whitecap?
How many seconds before I turn into
this flickering green, that taste of city light
and not just the boy on the bridge
into the air.
Letter from God
for all of the awful things,
such as toothaches,
because I knew damn well
that existence would have been
a helluvalot easier to cope with
if everyone could just
float around all the time.
for the hue
of palm-shaped bruises
blooming on your cheeks.
For the floor creaks
at 4 AM as she
door-slams her exit
out of paradise forever,
for the whiskey-spills
on the wall
above the shattered flask
reminding you so much of your family.
for the furious dance
beneath canopies of copper and lead
for famine greedily digging graveyards
with the spades carved from the bones
of forgotten civilizations,
for the simple
desire of a virus
for the basic appetite
Forgive me for the times
that I wasn’t around for you.
I was so focused on
exponentially expanding universe together
that I forgot about you.
Just the other day
I lost grasp of a galaxy,
watched it slide behind
the veil of abyss,
and I don’t think
we’re ever gonna get that back.
Do you know what that feels like?
To watch something you created
just slip away like that?
It’s like watching your home burn down
everything you love
sleeping peacefully inside.
(and you’re the one
who lit the match)
for the times
that I was around,
using the backside of my hand
far more often than
a father should.
I was attempting to carve “love”
into your conscience
with a thunderclap of knuckles.
Clumsy, blind I knew not what
I was doing.
Of course, you should understand,
for I have read
in the beginning was the word
and the word was with God
and the word was God,
it was your tongues
that bent to my syllables
your vocal chords
that earthquaked my name
through your gritted teeth.
In the beginning,
I was a guttural moan
thrown into cavewalls.
Once your mouths became dexterous
you called me Brahma.
then Yahweh and Allah,
then simply God,
you still call me all of these things,
you still call me the reason
why your seraphim feathers are charred by your
the reason why
you tear each other apart
like a thirsty wanderer’s
cracked map of the desert,
the reason why
you trace skin grids
with bull whips
across each other’s back,
Do not forget,
just as you are born from my language
I am born from yours,
I am born each time
you bruise your delicate knees
against the cold cathedral floors
calling out my name for forgiveness
Forgive me when I die
you forget how to call me anything
other than yourselves.
Vol. 2 - Issue 9 [Adam Love]
(Editor’s Note: An earlier version of this piece previously appeared in Conte)
Vol. 2 Issue 9 [Brendan Walsh]