My Child is Now Rotting in the Ground
Dreams, the shape of pornography
I lose twenty-one grams
I collected my son’s baby teeth as they fell out
calcified memories, speckled in blood.
I slide these little bits of bone around until they start to form images:
tied with thread,
hangs from a noose
headless, pumping its lover full of semen,
spreads wings full and brilliant grey,
eyes stare like buckets of ink,
edges bleed fuzzy
mold grows on gauze.
blooms and fills the head with the sweet smell of copulation,
a steady scent of lilac
grows from a pot of moist pennies as
October rains sputter through the open window.
the tears come.
the truth comes.
the pennies spill, he eats them up,
curdles them in the stomach
shits them out,
spread like a thin coat
plaster over the world.
no one can hear him.
is terror is guilt is divorce is death is divorce is guilt is terror.
clenched in the color of red,
crashes to the table
the teeth shatter to the wind.