Poetry Time: Spes Phthisica

This is one of the poems I wrote when I was in my William Faulkner–inspired phase in 2009.

~~~

something about hands near
a mouth
makes me sick.

floppy face, tight watermelon
belly
grown cold in the ditch.

who will do our washing now, father?

the day my life changed, dark
skin
gone pale, so sick.

i’m in the middle, the
hips,
caught in a burst of

aestheticism.

who will do our washing now, father?

the woman’s
body
a machine.

murdered by red swollen
eyes
of the other Jesus

the scar down his
face
failure of memory

who will do our washing now, father?

the laundry’s dirty as
hands
skeletons jingle

in the closet where my
head
rests

the memory of her makes my
lungs
sick, so sick, i’m so sick