Stuck in My Craw #poetry

Switchpole lies in three-four time. Fluorescent backing

the agents of destruction. The angels we have heard

while high; the demons we never knew. Inside the stagehand’s

mind. What callouses are these, what wrinkles?

I dreamed the death of a president, an assassin’s

passion. Eavesdrop on this, dear ol’ Dad:

We stand above an empty grave, signing

Wish You Were Here. No one writes

protest signs on this mission, and the peace pole

is a stake through your vampire heart—the garlic braid

unravels. How far I’ve traveled just to find you

tucked into my luggage. I shed

such baggage, your skin

sloughing off in my

claw.

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