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Monday, April 18, 2022

Sparks inside the Sun

My father’s hands were roped accompanied by scars

From burns at work. He had trouble

Bending his fingers. The ache.

I watched him debone a perch

At sundown, sprint his ragged hands

Over the narrow thing, the spine curling

Like rosemary from his grip

And onto the ground. My neighbor

Asked for a jump, clapped the copper jaws

To build sparks inside the sun. Then

He offered me meth for my car.

The woman I’m seeing has hands nearly

As large while mine. We portion shoes.

She says I’ll go nearer to hate her

If ?I remain lengthy enough. I can’t

Make sensory power of anything, but

I disagree. I gash my hand this week

On the bramble spines that grow thick

In the forest. I didn’t observation till I looked

And saw gore all over the door.

The illumination today shows all the moving pieces.

I believe I tin see them when I step out

And into the sun. My whole body hurts:

Unholy choir. My dad is gone: his hands

Did it to him. I try to retain busy. I hold

Her hands. I clean the gore off the door.


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Truth hurts! Nothing is perfect, life is messy. Relationship are complex. Outcomes are uncertain, people are irrational.




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