We are sometimes so heavy. Mobsters use us
instead of cement shoes. There’s no one left to talk
of those vice grip tightnesses. Better than anyone,
you can hold your own. I will save the outpouring
of regret, feed it to the corn in the fields
and hope all the women telling me it is milk
that makes corn more tender are wrong. Fuck you
who helped us do this thing. How are you?
Expecting beauty, I found a battle instead.
I found myself shooting, burning villages.
We were the natives and we were the enemy soldiers.
I am tiny here. I have cancer and shoes, souvenirs.
Creepy photographs. I’ve lost interest in this
and everything else. Worse, I’m definitely lost
with no further interest in finding a way.
Now I can’t stop crying. I just weep quietly
because that’s the real world. Don’t worry
about how I do. I resent my own excuses.