by Renwick Berchild

As we walk our backs are low, our hearts pointing into our guts,
roll and hardened into seashells, gripped inside, the soft parts threatening
to spill onto the carpet.

We are not being defeated by malice – just absent-minded greed.
The foundation is removed brick by brick beneath our reddened soles.

I have ghosts that keep following me, wisps and shades that twist
round these thinning, scooped wrists, hollow story arcs that dip me into glows,
candle fires and MRI machines and wires and wires and wires

and wires wires wires that knotted and became my muscles,
thick bulges of electricity coated by scabs, cool zings that fry me,
numb me like a vicodin vapor I am sucking.

I reach out, to plug the mouth that is swallowing us, but,

am swallowed. I am silent as I slip down the tube. It is like tumbling
in a slow explosion, the goliath lying, a baby crying all through the night.

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