Monkey’s Paw (First Version)
the stampede of lost lambs tore into the painting,
coloring the sky in Artaud ecstasy
loud & filthy with desire
strewn across the field
of bodies sewn through the fallen chain link fence.
Lifeless but full of motion,
they are a bloodless hymnal-
a flip book of photographs- discrete
images lie sometimes, but these are at least
nine hours in the making.
Under no stars, but so much swirling
sky drips into everything we drink now.
Close your childhood, tightly.
A fleshy specter appears
in light circadian logic
behind your eyes
before everything cries through glass.
Where have you been, a sister asks
Your boy has returned home
as broken geometry,
all angles in reflection. Open hymen
sounds too much like your surname,
too much like Hinderman.
Your sin sees damage like you
& no mysteries exist in these words.
Your son has returned home,
& he’s currently beating
prayer into the TV while you watch.
You asked for this emptiness, he screams.
You’re shot talentless
Bullets know distance
only matters in formal math.
You have returned home in another body,
You can stare into yourself forever
once he’s inside.
Look to the door shaking
into your fingertips.
Your little boy has returned.
Your boy has come home
to a version
He’s waiting for you.
Lambs will grow wild in the absence
Go right now.
Open your door,
& let him in.