My body’s an apology gloating and lonely. Pride’s desolation and freedom breeds chaos. Knowledge is grief. I haven’t dreamt in weeks. There’s blood in the bathroom sink. I have words, but what are they worth? The dream fades from recognition. These poems are homemade explosives: my emotions are camouflage. Understanding feels like a drug. My travelogue: green in blue waves. Drove from north to south Ohio. We use Bibles like rifles: an idle mind invites only what it can fathom. What’ll it take to break this spiral? The wind refuses all labels. My dad burned copper wires in the alley, behind our flat. My brother’s cat, Max, had a litter of kittens. We’d collect scrap: manhole covers and railway spikes tilted the small sedan. My plans went out the window when you died. My eyes trace the horizon line: this time, I wasn’t able to say
-- J.L. Moultrie is a poet living in Detroit. He’s the author of the poetry collection Cairn.
