The pall of black loam coats my stomach, allows
filthy crane feathers to grow through my lungs,
absorbing my vital arteries. Beneath, half-opened milk
crates pickling my bones begin to dehydrate, cracking
open my first and failed engagement to a Navy baby,
typical, tarnished brains bobbing in salted waves,
enamoring scent of Glory Days alcohol poured into the
receiver of a rotary phone he found, gave to me for a ring.
The dial-tone was always singing,Fuck the US military.
Fuck the US. Fuck what service these assholes think they’re
“doing for the country.” We’re protecting sod, saving families
of Oaks! The PTSD thinks it’s a joke, playing peek-a-boo
in the corner while the uniforms delicately places bouquets,
foxglove and succulents in the barrels of oak whiskey.
The loam takes a sip, or two, has the same look in it’s eye,
the glazed-over, cut-up-heart-strings look you had when I
asked if you were excited for your second son and you
answered “not really.” One milk crate busts, tells me when I
was sixteen, the kitchen manager of Outback Steakhouse gave
me his best life advice: don’t marry someone just because you
have a kid with them. The milk crate says “I regret it every day.”
Autonomy knows not to marry the first limber branch that hands
out sparkling grape seeds. The milk crates won’t learn this until we
all slide like a hail storm and curse like the black glittering sand.