‘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