National Poetry Month 2021

A faint and fainter static wraps around the hymen.

Tart and breathless, 

it jounces onto the tip of my exhaustion.

A stomach holds food and centuries of bad decisions. 

It is a place where tambourines play underground while a 

shore cascades down the legs, drowned.

A window cancels the noise I brought in with me.

The butcher materializes and makes the roots scream.

Purple hearts of valor make a good conversation piece, a rifle in

a closet does too. The ghosts of what left you remain in the chimney. 

Lives intertwined, vacant of fire. 

Gaped universes within folds of skin twitch at the sight of sunlight.

Some things peel at dusk. 

Some things linger.