*from the abandoned intersection of 18th Avenue and Grangeville Boulevard*

my faith is rather dull
constantly
my Lord and Savior
can’t help but pick at their teeth
file their nails and consult their pearly-white schedules
for the next mind-numbing calamity

my hobbies are incredibly formulaic
usually
watching gnats and bits of dust
drown in my tepid medium roast, no cream
piles of books left unread, unloved
my lovely array of facemasks
begging for another wash

my gay/queer friends and I are slated
generally
for corporate consumption
doused in rich, velvety sauce
consisting of trademarked rainbow flags,
imprinted Queer Eye emblems, Absolut Vodka,
Ritz crackers, and…

We cleanse
our faces
in thick salves of aloe vera

anoint our frizzled hair
with tea tree oil

and sink into
the crisp crevices
of freshly-laundered sheets.

He asked his friends
to ignore the half-assed bitemarks
adorning the side of his neck

and gloss over
the film of grease and sweat
coating his cheeks and chin
from going down on his lover.

We then
bookmark our novels
by cheekily folding the pages’ corners

stumble out of bed
in fits of apathy and panic
clawing for the light switch

and climb into the car
sink into the front seat
and rest our fevered…

We are haunted
by her absence.

Mother
dearest matriarchal keeper
nursing a mug of ginger tea
It hasn’t reached her lips yet.

Father
the emotional watchmen
scribbling indecipherable letters
furiously editing their illegible paragraphs

Our home is haunted
by her absence

Lovely sister
the sorceress of paper dolls and tag
occupies herself with braiding Miss Sherry’s hair
her back slightly bent, guarding her side of the room.

Tender brother
a growing boy of stone-cold expressions
grumbles in bed, throwing his tattered baseball
into the stilted air of his confined space, a suffocating chasm.

This town is haunted
by her absence.

…

Our rich blood
refuses to coagulate.

It will flood
your idyllic suburbia.

your chapped lips
ragged from your nervous licking

your sickly, sweaty sheen
far from discreet

Deal with it.

Our death throes
will instigate earthquakes.

Your vast, sprawling lots
are our beautiful gardens.

We decline your appeasement.
We wish not to be displaced.

Are you not my brother?
Am I not your son?
Are they not your daughters?
Are you not our parents?

Amidst our strangled weeping,
our hands are raised.

Our battered, stinking vessels
weather the frigid nightfall.

glaring at the gleaming, towering cliffs
we weren’t meant to…

though shall not covet
though shall not lust

muddied brown eyes
the shade of His fingers
painting sight onto the Blind Man
sun-kissed skin
cloaked in sturdy sackcloth
your left sandal
hanging by tattered straps

no
no, Joseph wouldn’t approve of us at all

honor thy father
honor thy mother

you didn’t tell me
you had a martyr for a sibling

his “death”
hardened you
petrified you
on a dusty limestone
overlooking your desolate homeland

tucking your ordinary coat into your abdomen
it wasn’t as flamboyant or brash
as that cherished gift from Father Jacob

I drink your grief
the passing…