Who do we think we’re kidding?
As if the threshold was
the infinitesimal, too—
but spirit does linger.
Bring honey, a black lamb,
two firearms, and a woman’s dress,
with the turning of the moon.
Soon, I will turn thirty. Hope for the best.
Hunting is my living, see, and I take
away from this haunted space.
Loosen my language from my teeth.
Many things have tried to kill it.
It will hurt still, but not for long—
for a moment I’m scared that this will be worse.
Easier to gnash, better to howl with.
The root of the word monster
the sound of fuck you up
pressing deep into me, splitting me—
but they will see what I see.
Good lupo, optimum dog.
I guess there are worse names.1
1This poem entirely comprises lines borrowed from the works of the following poets (in order of initial appearance): Charles Wright, Adele Gardner, David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Kendall Evans, Shivanee Ramlochan, Rebecca Buchanan, Herb Kauderer, Danielle Boodoo-Fortuné, Nicholas Laughlin, Jeff Crandall, Cindy O’Quinn, Amal El-Mohtar, Roger Bonair-Agard, Toby MacNutt, Jeana Jorgensen, Nate Marshall, Deborah Davitt, Jessy Randall, Vahni Capildeo, and Roger Dutcher.
© 2020 Brandon O'Brien