2/30

[Art by Marion Fayolle]

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spires rot from fingernails

you are borne towards south, enmeshed in necessity

the desire for the small cries of love, or the shouts of anger

the feeling unwanted is void, is silence, is the rotting hate in the bellies

feeding off the cow’s cream and lifting the soil from the fields

we are made of earth’s salt, the weight of our limbs holds

the downwards sun is bathing the white skins by inaccessible pools

and diving boards devoid of others’ feet, the fat on the benches is pressing

the bulge never secret, screaming out from the forthing pink mouth

the belly button tongue and cream puffing hair are rage’s locomotives

jealousy, jealousy, jealousy, to have what is not yours, to always possess

you look like the toddlers are shitting their pants simultaneously

over teachers taking back toys

like gorging big mac monster minus a sixth milkshake,

like eaten corpse begging for more maggots

you look like me

like blue eyes and midwest sun

like football summer and the flying catches

bulling hits and the throated screams

how

did we become so different?

I, now cities folded into ink,

ink staining pages and arms, continents and books

you trucking hat untamed hair,

harsh words and small definitions of manhood

but weren’t we all just boys

when you shut me inside a closet in your basement

& sat against the door with your older brother

laughed as I climbed the shelves like a cat

& slammed my fingers into a door

our houses were so big that no one heard my screams then–

but they do now,

and your lungs

are the only ones on the verge of giving out.

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