To the Dying Texan in Me
I have murdered another memory
A straight walk of the rejected
Out back I dig a sea-level grave
To the sound of sunday pundits
It begins with never talking about sins
Trim the cake until it’s white and worthy
What do I say to the face
Of the blind?
I hand them a cane and a gun
To open a soup can
This is where I come to breathe dust
Build a shadow on the wall
Carpeted halls to perdition
Primary rooms of crushed cheerios
Formica chapels of achromatic lights
Breeding succulent sacraments
Who will come out alive?
In this nuclear family,
I’ll sit and wait to leave.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 49 | Spring/Summer 2017