laundry lines


United States
28° 26' 18.6684" N, 81° 37' 31.5408" W


when the boy drawn to priesthood kissed me, his mouth burned.

with triple-layer onion skin and a crucifix tongue, he tumbled

down from a cloud at 9 and snapped his legs in half.

for six nights, the siren sounds bled into mourning.



all great men are bound to fracture. when a bone twists into fury,

breathe sharply through your nose – three times like siren song –

and recall the scent of your mother’s perfume.



we hang wet clothes in the closet in the habit of mistaking

good men for heroes. for so long, i have not had a hero.

my father stomachs the blow of scarred mouths and ambulance

bells. the boy cloaked in liturgy, his hands only build mountains.



if you overturn a single pebble, the river still streams.

when i tanned the rocks a golden brown – the sun shining

down on their jagged curvature – we sang the song of gentle sirens.


Bible pages blowing in the breeze, two legs healing from the

inside out, no more than lungs and feathers and laundry lines. 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741