I smile proudly at the bug,
cradle it in a sheet of paper
and set it gently down
on the ground outside.
These four words ignited fear – even terror – in the ranks of unmarried American men of all ages, races, religions, and economic means. So why should I be any different?
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I feel guilty. In the darkness of the night, I’m gutted with my privilege and toss and turn on my bed.
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“And how are you doing?” I want to say that I am not doing. I want
to say that I am existing; instead, I just exist. Like things just happen.
I exist the way you remember to breathe – out of habit.
It is all for the kiln - the gown as discreetly
and secretly brought every night in her bed
and wore her down—burnt.
Art alone
compensates. Statues
of bearded psychotic warriors, not even legend.
“Devon, I have a confession.”
“I was hoping you did. I’m a bit confused this morning.”
“You see, that wasn’t me in your bed last night."
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