More on: Poetry

There’s something like prayer I’ve always bit on my tongue but then I can immediately taste the blood afterwards. You’re old enough to know now my father says to me.

My father wants a new suit, deep blue to black
for the viewing loose fitting, with or without
a cuff

Most objects do object to being moved:
crates of paperbacks cracking, a creaking hutch
of china the clumsy among us won’t touch.

Hey oldhead, a voice called out, you want to go?

No, thank you, I said and raised my hand as if he’d asked me
to sign a petition.

When I fought Ryan in the cafeteria I only hit him
three times before Mr. Coleman grabbed my shoulder

and pushed me against the wall.

I don’t really pray anymore except to say help. 

I feel I’m more raccoon
—with questions curious as paws—
than brother to these patients, for whom the moon
seems closer company than either me or God.

I thought you’d be born
in Jerusalem.

I don’t blame you for that.