~after Theodore Roethke
my face became the moon in procession
swung from the garage like some strange racist fruit, all swollen ankles and kiddie shoes.
whiffs of perfume, lavender dreams of watermelons and groves
swung from the garage like Bradley Cooper, cross-eyed. vomit and urns and tears for the oil, for the grass.
board a train full of catfish fire.
sing Black Star — become big wing.
ride a mangled bike, tote a rifle.
the spirit starves until the dead have been subdued
(This poem has been updated since its publication in Ghostpins, 2019.)
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