‘What I Tell Myself’
The ideas I grapple,
a contest of strength—
Hercules and the lion,
Red Robin Hood’s cape.
It’s our stories defying
the swirling snakes
of our past—
helix in flask
of flesh and calcium.
It’s halcyon ink,
scrawled from the left
to your elbow,
as your head droops
and you see understanding
as the fluke it is.
Brass tips touch
where they shouldn’t—
against your parents,
even though
they died
on Christmas.
Criss-cross resurrection,
and the sermon is well,
nearly their complexion—
but a little less hell
than the plate flung
over the waterfall island,
granite chicly speckled.
And I never heckled
as I snuck behind sweaty backs
to grab an evening apple
and ponder knowledge
as I chewed arcs,
with juice running
down my cheeks
with the tears.
-N&A
