by Yelena Tower

We know we want to live

unmolested, but

the truth is we’re ashamed,

hiding and skulking in scat

while the world rattles by,

holding you secret down in our bellies,

something we'd seriously

rather not talk about

a disgusting agora of fear,

a hissing entrail of shame.

I can’t figure out what’s wrong.

God, help me. I am a twinge

in the setting sun.

I can’t see the sky, just a

hungry band of deer

windtorn and bare,

fur like a powdered-sugar coating

gone when the next wind comes.

Soon we'll be painting

a leafblower in bloom

limoncello over the water

some green haze of oil, a

lackadaisical yellow

smudge against the heavens.

You want to talk to me,

but I don’t even know who you are.

Used with permission. Original found here.