Member Poem

& a house boned by fire says: we aren't
     supposed to be here. today, I screw you
into a bathroom light, pressing your palms
     on mine to show you the weathered threads of
my inheritance, homegrown fields where I scavenge
     for bruises & papercut wounds. c mere,
you say. give it to me heavy-handed,
     give it ripe. I'd like to think that hurt feeds
off loving, that my mother's century-egg soup
     hasn't soured itself out another face of me
you'll never consume. we've come
     here too many times to stitch reopened
wounds, sweat dressing our skin like gilded
     bayonets. today, I'll be the cowherd if
you are the hunter, both of us skinned
     into roles past recognition. neither of us
wants to grow into prey: distant, afraid, dead
     & behind us. its eyes braised with a life long
enough to know regret, but too short to tender
     you within it. today, you are a country I'll never visit,
a homeland that fractured itself beyond
     my present tense. I hope you'll see this before
I go: how I unhinged your jaw for safekeeping.
     how arms burn into daggers by the light.
how these walls have ruined us.