BIO

Sometimes, I see other versions of my body. In the

 

mirror. In other people's eyes. Boy dozing in the

 

long grass of a summer field. Boy with his fingers

 

in his mouth, gnawing his cuticles to ragged

 

lines. Boy as a mixtape, a ditch waiting to be

 

filled with rain, a safe place for foxes to be

 

born. Boy buried in mud. Boy carried off by

 

pigeons. Boy as a castle in the sky made of

 

starched white sheets, weighing less than a sack

 

of rats, two slow for his father’s hand. Boy as a

 

wind chime in a storm, for there is never a good

 

way to talk about pain, and how it means you are

 

only ever kissing the image of another boy’s face

 

in the river, hearing his voice through the dying

 

connection of the last working payphone in this

 

town where I was born. But then. Boy split into

 

pieces. Boy washing blood from the back of his

 

legs. Boy who will never again kneel in church.

 

Boy tearing himself apart. Boy as a broken guitar.

 

Boy as a hawk I carry in my mouth without causing

 

hurt. Boy as an old feather, ragged and torn. Boy

 

as a raging fire. As bright as a cathedral. As a

 

shooting star. As just another heartbeat. Boy who

 

will not call one more awful thing into this

 

world.

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