September 2012

The Days

listen to this poem
Our sun failed,

fell from its sky straight

to our hands. You can bet

we ate that big ball of joy

on a plate, knives, forks, anything

to puncture. You can bet


someone stood in the corner screaming

“do whatever you don’t want”

stood with a pocketknife

carving negative space. O we pray

to lords on high please please

give us hunger, that hunger,

so much hunger we cull our friends’ hearts


bake them at four hundred degrees. Hunger

was not and never will be a problem of emptiness.

It’s a problem of the stomach, having a body

full of organs. Across the nation


we sit in circles with mouths full of scream

so much

the churches’ foundations start in with the fire.

We come with arms cradling cash

asking friends of friends to write us prayers–

every time we watch a movie now

we go to bed and dream of falling

endlessly through a plastic sea.


No one thanked us for our kindled hair,

small head steeples, models of our

arrogance. How quietly we cursed

under our breath before cursing our breath

for its wandering into darkness. Streetlamps

remained until we began

the vomiting process. Pieces of sun

that slowly dried in a field abandoned by deer.

We recalled that our lineage lived in other countries.

This was not long ago. Let us pray

we’ll never be forced to live again.