2:37pm

[Originally published 11/29/17]

2:37pm or what you do with your stories*

you worry you have no imagination no worlds outside your own

that your stories are a depth too shallow to trouble

you un/convince yourself that no one wants this thing

     your heart     

     dripping with blood and sea and salt

     heavy with ink

     wrapped in tobacco leaves and cane flowers

     and you give it away 

you place it on the stoop of the tenement on garden street

you put it in the center of the four projects 

you dip it in the hudson in the east river in the bay

you take it to vega baja to el cantil to the waterfall your mother never saw

you wash it under the rusty drip dripping from your faucet

you bury it with your father 

you offer it to your sister to sacrifice to her fires

you give it to her son who weaves it beautiful again 

you feed it to your lover and wait for a response 

you dig a hole in your yard and kick it in

your drive for hours to clear turquoise lakes and fling it    you don't look back

you hack at it with a machete 

you tend to it like a wound 

you raise it to the stars and show it to the gods 

you boil it with mint and let it burn your thoughts

you climb up to the roof and toss it to the wires hoping it will swing like sneakers

you relinquish it to the roaches to carry away 

you fold it in four and shove it between the seats of a greyhound bus going south

you light it inhale twice and pass it while you wait for the empire state building lights to flicker your curfew 

you submerge it in your cup of coffee and stir it into your rice

you let your neighbor borrow it then watch her give it away

you let your brother take it and watch him trade it for rocks

you let his daughter use it as paint and helplessly watch her go mad

your let your other brother spit on it and curse you dead 

you read about writers and read writers and you wonder who will teach you what stories matter

you thrash the keys on your typewriter 

you stave off migraines 

you wage wars in your mind 

you slapbox ghosts in the corner 

you play wallsies at the welfare office 

all the while asking 

who is this for       who am i for

[east lansing]