Ampersand-Wounded SkyA Poem by Hollow ManWhen we were young, respectfully, we were like extension cords- your arms tied me, in wrestling matches, to muted carpet; you taught me uncle. Years later, the breath struggled between my wind pipes with your fingers
like Rigor-mortis around my feral throat, and my feet dangled above that carpet like a rescue- diver’s fins in the shadow-less unknown. Now I’m old. I wrap my noosing words around yours like black wrapping paper and admire the pink crevices on my knuckles that, I think, look like yours did years ago. Shoe mold to base board, dry-wall mud to elbows and Semi-gloss Apple Cider on my cheek bones- I see you more, now, that I don’t see you at all. When you die I’ll let the Appalachians swallow your dry and dusty remains beneath arches of Lambkill and the hands of an ampersand-wounded sky, like you’d have done for me- her umbilical cord coiled tight around my nape like tie-wire twisted around Blood Orange-colored rebar- in some hospital bed. © 2012 Hollow ManFeatured Review
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Added on January 26, 2012Last Updated on February 6, 2012 AuthorHollow ManStafford, VAAboutI was born an old soul. Such is life. I live in a wasteland town in Northern Virginia. Poetry is solace. I run an online literary journal titled Toska with my best friend, which is now accepting submi.. more..Writing
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