worshippers say the word to make the body sacred. & scars around the almost rigor mortis? & corkscrews in his paralyzed arm? Praise paroxetine & clobazam & methadone. Amen to the taxidermy his arm became. Praise all the flesh if any. Bless this raw tidal ripping, no more a heart than a cluster of fireants: sing a hip bone joined to the leg bone barely. Tell him the mind just dreams. Tell him he reeks like a chew toy & we’re not sure why. The body. To fawn over it. Why not model planes & kneel before the glue that weighs them down. Call the wings an altar & crash as he braids my hair with one hand.
Iron Horse Literary Review