Quantity Over Quality
Toss and turn for ten
fraught hours or sleep sweet for five?
Quantity. Always.
Toss and turn for ten
fraught hours or sleep sweet for five?
Quantity. Always.
allured as imaginary anti-anglerfish
I’m a product of an old drunk
Madly and toxically,
My mother and father
Stormed each others lives,
Yelling, punching, throwing their children around,
And hitting our heads against the wall
Of the unstable single-wide trailer down by the river
On the train tracks of Eastern Kentucky
I’m a product of several dads,
Several strangers,
And cut-out hearts with crayons and magnets
To display for the next one
I’m a product of bad touch
And not being quite sure if that was trafficking
But knowing their were drugs involved
I”m a product of old truck drivers who drank too much bourbon
And hit the kids a little too much
In the old cement building next to the bar
In the rundown town you drive past
I’m a product of the hidden hollers,
The old farmhouse where torture happened
And tears ruined my favorite shirts ‘cause I chewed out their necks
I’m a product of the only sweet old man in my life
That belly laughed and watched cartoons,
But I’m pretty sure he knew what Nanny was doing
I’m a product,
I was scanned,
Passed around,
And thrown in the trash
I’m no longer a product
she never liked
the rain crow’s call
too sad, when the weekend
included visiting graves,
leaving a few plastic
flowers we’d pick up
by Labor Day, or before
yet the deed’s done
and now we sit
in porch swing twilight
happy as we listen
to mournful birdsound
Until now, they were laden with grief, & I believed that I saw my mother ascending their glow to Heaven every time their beauty graced the sky
Today, they’re glowing blankets stretching across the sky: I see her,
but they also tell how he loves me & that he won’t ever fully say goodbye
that you already have a perfect record of surviving this
waking nightmare, even if only by
muscle memory, duty, or grace.
that you will never have to live this first, most
raw reminder again; you can point yourself
forward and let inertia do the rest.
that there are many hands to keep you buoyant when
you need to float and crowd surf on our love.
Go out among the trees where the creek
rocks can quiet your mind, where the
cardinal and the bluebird
can find you.
I.
In the old red truck–
its redness consuming like a whole mouth–
I lit a match for you there.
II.
Smoke and sulphuric scent,
phosphor puff–
wood stick
these
parts
are
the
ma-
th-
ch-
es
b
o
d
y
III.
IV.
I light a match.
In my throat, I bite back and watch
my thoughts d i s s o l v e
like so much smoke–
scent lingers.
