The sensation returns of bones flying off
The sensation returns, of bones flying off
the handle, joints rubberized and fading
the heartbeat of a helicopter banking south
interrupts the mourning doves at 6. I am maybe
awake I remember being drunk at readings
where everything I heard was a way to
a future illuminated like digital streets peeking
up beneath David Hockney’s window
luminescent in unreal strokes.
The future now is a twin horizon that never
gets nearer, of living too long uninterested
like my grandmother, unable to read
because of anxiety; because you never
get a personality when you live for others
because now all those others are dead.
The alternative is obligations
unfulfilled and still not knowing if
what I feel is love not anger asleep in
desire; a stone in the stomach of a wolf.
By J. Freeborn
J. Freeborn is a genderqueer high school teacher in New York.