Scuttled in Their Stalls
A. H. Jerriod Avant

(for Bob Kaufman)


every throat     a hose rusting inside out
live on the heels of panic     blackberries

luring us into thickets     none would
remember this if it were not for the hole

in his lie she blew     his voice launching
through the car windows     the brain will

always gather before it explains anything
even these rhythmic arms beg genuine bone

connected to     bone     connected to the
dwindling cartilage     sand in an hourglass

it takes years to shatter     a trial against an ego
a stronghold rising     a parched knot

in the neck she strokes     these braided straws
she walks across the floor     with hands of work

much too torn     for     any of this holding
that she does     at every house party she is

this candle we like to light     her flicker     we frame
her wax     we swallow     with our cold mouths

 

 

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