Kyle McCord

 

 

Poem with Romero on the Coast of Maine



I don't want to live in a world where I can see through the skin of my own hand
through to where the blood goes about its Mr. McFeely business. I wander Portland
half full of peace, half praying for rain. I buy a hunting rifle to protect you
from the sort of life I'm afraid of—the one where we are drop-dead gorgeous
zombies who analyze mortgage assets behind tackboard barriers. The headlights
of Acuras shivering moons on the sheen of the swimming pool. In our poverty
you drilled holes under our bed frame for our dreams to filter into so no one would
hear the bed warbling like a loon. Like decent people you said, and said it
like we weren't. In the hotel in Maine, indecency was making its rounds
while I carried your hand like sand, like a souvenir. A ride called the white whale
where they strapped you in, made you listen to Hemingway for half an hour.
Now, I see you skulking about the supermarket. You've forgotten Baba Yaga
forgotten wanderlust and the sound of your apartment buzzer like an air siren.
And each day, I grow farther from the dead. But I could die a little, if you'd ask.
I could lay down my arms like a package at your door, where you'd sign your name,
sign that S withered as the coal hill's shadow stretching hundreds of miles through the dusk.

 


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