!['[Beware: your hand will harm the other]', by Chris Cummins](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/59aef3bacd39c38dabcb0dc2/1770046900777-Y1PC6AT78ETCH240OMMJ/1000018306.jpg)
My father, gravity, heard the rumor of my death,
Went into his room intending to hide
Pretending the shape of inception.
I am a traveler on the journey between lives. Please
hold my hand. I’m scared. Please carry me.
The last time I did, my reflection twitched, glitched, distorted.
A bug? A body? A burden?
I’m dreaming of a white
Christmas on the road to
A desert golf course
Is not the literary mind
, in sum , defiant ?
they took their music and the
Feeling that they’d be
seventeen forever
26 and two days counting;
Didn’t even have the glory of 27,
Just a halfway thought-out header
That read, “Showed Promise.”
I equate religion
with the smooth circling
of these fish
through recycled waters.