by Garrett Milligan
Come back to our shallow lulls. The pool is murky but sweet on the mind’s tongue.
Across the pew, we spun lives for each other and let
them crumble on the choir’s lap.
I have tried this one, it spits the dull shed back into my bed,
going on about stairs etched
in the obvious failure of mother’s wishes.
Down the minutes by way of delusional scratch, unforgiven and lacking.
He with silenced kiss and covered books pleads, “Twist with me,
distort with me.”
A pricked finger shred from hometown gravel.
We face each other in the residue. A holy memory book sits desecrated under the smile
of a watcher.
organ is wearing him. At a motel he draws a shallow bath.
And a blank page.
Pallid light on the chipped dresser. A stitched hand
The dream’s stem is scarred with theft.
If given the chance, he would wait until morning.