What am I?
A small fissure? A crack
in the floorboards, a knot-hole
expanding into a yawning gap.
This is my life in dirt.
agitated ash. And I dig deep
to find nothing but desperate sighs.
I see it in him too. Blurring the edges;
the boy with fruit in his pockets
and apples in his eyes.
He wants me to stay visible.
Is this the last time I shall write this?
He is coming, not the boy, the man,
even though he’s got his pound of flesh
(rolls it with a sickening stickiness
along the grooves in my fractured forehead)
he wants more. Creeper.
His fingers in my throat and I can’t eat.
I gag. And wait for remembrance.