The suicide runs, always just out of reach.
Tell me, I say. I want to listen. Or. Enough,
I say. I’ve heard enough. The days repeat
themselves, a semaphore of want, a dark
stoop of talon, piercing. Ankle deep, I wade
through the remains. My ears recoil like
spent shells on shingle. Shh, they say. Shh.
OLLIE, OLLIE, OX IN FREE
Shoat, checkerboard, skate park. Grip the
bridge as it lifts to hang you above dark
water. Squeal when chased. Suck barked
knuckles, both your blood tasting the same.
Massage your scalp where he dragged you by
hair. Stop, you said, don’t. Next time,
greased, you’ll slip through fingers. You’ll
castle, entrench to your strongest square.
Careen now, railslide, the grind good,
roughing you smooth. Sacrifice, goofyfoot,
she writes, come, come. The doors are barred
against me. Time is a chained goldfinch
pacing its perch. Sweetheart, come. We used
to segment a ripe pear, placing an end in each
our mouths and meeting in the middle.
Remember? Now, I am ripe. I am
segmented. Where are you? Sweetheart,
come. Undo my restraints, untangle my hair,
lift me from my fecal bed. The paper they
give me is never enough. I cross it in waves,
break against its edges, but find myself still
here. Still. Here. I retreat in a sucking of
shingle, a grinding. Sweetheart, come. With
each pass of the pencil, I scratch a spell. I
shape you in grey scale, hoping that, when the
leaden nub wears to blood, you will appear.