Author Information
Joyce
Tonight I told my Mother of
the razors in my head.
They haven't got me bleeding just yet.
I'm too busy flailing,
too busy searching for a solvent
to filter in me, filter through me,
wash away persistent stink.
She took her drills to me and
said a quart of poetry,
drawn from Mother's archives,
born from many days and nights
handling us as best she was.
I chewed upon my drawstrings then,
lost in stubborn magnitude.
Searching through the quaking, shapeless,
hapless mound of me -
I forced myself to listen,
and consider.
Despite my ever absence, my
vacancy in neon,
I felt good fortune knowing
that some good will simply never,
ever go away.
