
What Is A Human Possibility?
The body is a riddle and bones comprise a kind of orthography,
says the linguist to his mother.
A mother is a library seconds before the tornado strikes,
says the woman to her reflection.
Nothing makes sense when you are a twenty-something
who has already breathed in as much of the past as is humanly possible.
What is a human possibility?
Not love, not grace. Forget I asked.
I plucked the wings from my own back.
What I do not want stolen from me I destroy.
It is Monday. This means I have already committed the crime of emotion.
Write this down. Desperation is hope the size of a forest and
shame is a dress caught between the ankles of a man
who lugs his lovers around like photo albums.
Every waking second we dwell in indeterminacy; we pretend our lives are novelistic.
Survival is the same story of contamination told again and again. (Bummer.)
More often than not I am a sledgehammer
striking the filthy walls of the world.
Rarely do I peer in on the other side.
Author photo credit to Tenille Campbell
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