D. A. Powell - [listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying]

[natelyswhore.livejournal.com]

[listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying]


listen mother, he punched the air: I am not your son dying
the day fades and the starlings roost: a body's a husk a nest of goodbye

his wrist colorless and soft was not a stick of chewing gum
how tell?     well a plastic bracelet with his name for one.     & no mint
his eyes distinguishable from oysters how?     only when pried open

she at times felt the needle going in.     felt her own sides cave.     she rasped
she twitched with a palsy: tectonic plates grumbled under her feet

soiled his sheets clogged the yellow BIOHAZARD bin: later to be burned
soot clouds billowed out over the city: a stole.     a pillbox hat     [smart city]
and wouldn't the taxis stop now.     and wouldn't a hush smother us all

the vascular walls graffitied and scarred.     a clotted rend in the muscle
drive through avenues throttled with t-cells.     processional staph & thrush

the scourge the spike a stab a shend the cure the grace the quenching
listen mother, who brought me here: open the window.     let birds in