In our attic,
among things, as it seems
of past lives,
lives a bitter God.
When guests come to our house,
we don’t mention him.
When we’re alone,
we talk about him quietly,
fearing of being heard.
We do not know exactly when he moved in,
nor do we know why exactly with us.
Maybe because of the serenity.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘I. Am. Legend’, have been used with the permission of artist Patricio Betteo.
The red door to my home opened and the fresh smell of warm turkey and cranberry sauce collided with my senses the way Sticky
I jack off to one of the pictures of her I have saved on my computer and after I’m done I send her a message to tell her
I can feel the evening sun, warm on my face, but the chill of the wind coaxes me to pull my coat tighter around me.
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