Poetry

We are tired of arguing about who is the most hurt.
Better to toddle off for a little Chinese.
The locust flowers each year like cornmeal in the gutters.

Spark, then fire begins. Fire pulls oxygen
deep into the box. Come, child, there’s something
I’d like to show you in the back of this

When the ache was just too much, I’d skip
down the hill to the slip where you
and a small boat were always waiting.

That day the boys
took us quickly.
They took us calmly.

That summer night, we gathered again around the table,
drinking with all the bugs that lit up and some that didn’t.
When Mike said: I wonder how my ex-wife is doing

Watch him flip
them the bird
after the ball

I am born. I dream the nightroom of your body,
and in that place, you sing, build me of words

Time passes
into the limbs of the boys
on the field stretching

I am not yet dead. Do not call this miracle or raise your hands in praise. First, 
you should know how long I prayed, and how I came to know the silence of the Lord.