work. > poetry.

The Language of Breaking

Call it a sinkhole

Call it a sinking away

Call it a ship of bricks, an army of bullet-eyed looks, a lovenest of lies

Call it a cracked milk bottle

Call it out of control

Call it a starfish bursting in the skin

Call it a chain

Call it we built the links to bind us

Call it my lover on the roof, greasy water

Call it up to my ankles

Call it your body curled on the frozen cement floor

Call it a hole carved out of my stomach

Call it & your fingers the handles

Call it & in my cut open belly, your guilt,
& in my hands the shape of you, a crackling little egg

Call it & in my wave of DNA, a ribbon unraveling out of tune

Call it rocking yourself back to some womb

Call it that sent you crawling back into loneliness

Crawl it your my-words grafted onto my your-lips

Crawl it a zig & a zag, a back & a from, a place-my-heart-in-a-metal-splint, a crush-it-
with-a-stone-hammer.

Crawl it spinning red lights, a chrome spiral, a place not yours, an it’s-alright-you’re-fine-
you-don’t-need-to-be-saved

Crawl it can you believe I’ve forgotten which you, which he, which
who?