when a father is a control bar
made of wood
and the strings snap
the puppets fall
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
when a father is a control bar
made of wood
and the strings snap
the puppets fall
Photo by Joseph Pearson on Unsplash Milk Crate Malady We stumble to your home, arms linked tripping over ourselves as we talk I’m guided through the front door and down the passage to your room A lone mattress on the hardwood floor A vinyl collection spilling out of green milk crates Quick thumbs roll a cigarette we take…
Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.
There are days when my body is a forest of old pines ailing and wailing in unison
the future is ready for
our, now available,
technological improvement
I’m a mess
A profaner of tombs
Devoted to graves
Except mine.
we kiss good-bye;
I wait for the kettle to boil. I am
happily waiting.
Pieces of me are escaping
through the pores
in the skin
of this room
I sleep on the left side of the bed
so you can be on the right
the soft drum of your snore
signaling peaceful dreams
making me smile
From prawn to prawn
the rib dries
unbleached,
aching this unbaked line:
yesterday blew
like a wind
tell me the main differences between salt and nothing.
i will tell you the similarities. i will tell you i need both.