yellow flowers pasted onto
pale blue construction paper and
all of these complicated ideas
about love & suicide
lying to myself is easy
lying to others is necessary
wake up too early to the
ringing of my phone, to the voice
of my youngest son
snow at the end of march,
then it fades to rain
this will be the
day i drink the faucets dry
this will be the moment
of my ascension
streets lined with houses,
but no people
endless fields of dead grass
and splintered bones
stand there next to my oldest boy
and he says he’s not sorry for
any of the pain he’s caused
and his voice sounds
like my own
his presence might or
might not be imagined
all acts of grace
are torn apart so easily
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