The sun rose in his head while his feet were still asleep. Pigeons roosted then flew behind his eyes as nets full of sardines were pulled in off the coast of his toes. Mountains rose and fell with every breath. In the mornings he pulled on the trousers of the day but could not choose between his corn belt and his bible belt. Sometimes, he felt a fracking in his belly and at night he could not quiet the tinnitus of a million cars.
His pulp, his tender center, is not the pulsing mass that sits within his chest. No wonder ribs are called a “cage” –
Let’s grow up together
And forget to pay the rent.
“For Protection” he says smearing goop across my forehead. My father is a sculptor, And I am the wax figure he created. With the help of his rough working hands, On my face, he layers-on a sheet of Vaseline. Staring…