Like the alchemists of old searching
for the secret of turning base metal to gold
and the source of the fountain of youth,
![[he was not an easy man/my father], by Ivan de Monbrison](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59aef3bacd39c38dabcb0dc2/1742351323092-0HP3VV83HD497AX6L0LC/20241228_100908.jpg)
So we trace our fingers along the baseboards until we reach the same corner of a room. We pack ourselves into each other, and then, through a trick of pulling very hard on all the places where we join, we vanish.
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after the drone bomb
stuck between concrete rubbles
a mother and child
“Um. This is Benson Hughes, at 1212 Sunday Drive. I need to report that I’ve murdered my wife. Please send the police.”
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The nighthawk sings for us, that bird of corrosion and dust,
but don’t be afraid, autumn’s only an angel that brings the
darkworld of winter blooming white as infamous
asphodels.
wrenching myself over
the backs my ancestors offer me,
all for a chance
to prove that I have nothing
to prove.
They asked for
nothing nor answered
any question
except for the one I
knew there were no words for