Gathered with sibling and parents
at the dinner table, I watch
my father’s long, mahogany arm
stretch over to my mother, seated
at his side, and knead her neck
like dough, teaching me a lesson:
sometimes keeping two souls tied
does not require words.
This poem was originally published in Issue 19 of Fathom Magazine.
Look at me, my
Frankenstein of a body,
genesis of Mahogany
limbs. Notice this skin,
faded casualty
of sunlight, rain,
passing age.
I’m positioned
at the onset of incident,
like battering rams
serving no-knock warrants or
fists demanding entry.
Consider me a sentry
armed with cognizance
of things concealed
behind my back,
how closed rooms,
offices and residences deceive.
–For Anthony Bourdain
