Originally published in Thirty West Publishing’s Tilde, Volume 3 Issue 2
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I wonder about you if another lump grew back and about
the word remission the transience that’s part of it and you finally
text me back say no you’re just busy so I say oh. and okay.
but with the orange skies and the way the world’s been I have a right
to worry don’t I? wasn’t Jesus supposed to be here by now?
I look for the bearded fellow we all once believed in but outside
across the street from my house I just see a white gleam flash
by with the chime of a Mr. Softee truck. soon the children
will be here and I’ll want to go. if you had asked me how
I’ve been I would’ve said I just stick on lots of fake tattoos because
I don’t have anyone to touch me. now I have two tattoos so
I feel like I’m always being touched and though I don’t work I
work hard to cleanse everything so I can be pure and at ease.
I throw your sweater in the trash can so I don’t get gasoline all over
my back patio. a little witchcraft and I have our eight years
of friendship inside a tiny bottle with that perfume we both liked,
salt, nails, lemon juice, the works. when I shake it vigorously
I wonder if you’re alerted to the white noise buzzing in your ear.
I wonder if you think it’s Him.
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