by Kristiane Weeks-Rogers

Mud to sift through, dig out of his deep eye,
white skeleton always exo on him,
always waning phantom: his restless dry
mouth wandering edges for answers. Skin
finding Epsom, abandoned for a song.
Lost reels repeating our one scene: his smoke,
endless cigarettes while we drive along
Ana Island. Red sun up at the stroke
of Five, red light, whispered lips so narrow...

I want to fold his bones back inside, give
flesh, I can't be the one, pushing marrow
so innocent and clean, too sensitive
for touch. Phantom pain, I'll rise with the sun,
no contra's clamor, cold lips' impression.
 

139th Weekly Poetry Contest