What’s it like: to escape,
to phase through walls in
smokin’ black & gold but
not splatter yourself small?
I’ve tried to ghost. Sucked down
a pearl necklace of pills, but bricks
are hard—like knuckles—& that
hardness says I’m nothing special.
Do you leave your body behind?
The theatre curtain of blood, the
honeycomb of bones—where
it go when you’re halfway?
I’m sure I left mine, somewhere, without
a leash. It’s easier: to get high & forget
what I’m holding on to. Better if I float
over him & stray the body to howl alone.
Or does the world fold around you,
like water when one drops a rock to
wreck it’s still face? The world—does
it scar first then heal perfect, if at all?
I can’t displace the trailer or him inside it—
both are bombproof, & I’m nothing special.
I always see the hero swoop to save the ingénue.
But please, Miss Pryde, this time rescue the boy.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 2.
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