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In the middle of a rumbling moment,
A boy pleads to every
Oxyhaemoglobin that keeps rendering him to
The hands of fire, saying:

“I know my body is your home, take this anointing
Oil & get drunk. I supplicate. Wade
Towards the edge of my epidermis, out
Of my marrows, to where I can douse
You with water.”

Everything that burns
A boy lusts to keep him alive, isn’t pain
Selfish? Perhaps that’s what we inherit when we
Become poems birthed out of sick memories.
Here, he seeks moments of sanctity that
Wouldn’t wither like boys at the mouth of guns.
Who can hold a tongue better
Than God & tell it to burst into fire, or bats
Or butterflies? He enamels a prayer in his
Syntax & he becomes semicolons
in his stories.

Broken torso—
A boy sails on heaven’s wings
In search of peace.

under the sheets
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