Enotor Prosper

An Anachronism Of The Night I Tell Mother I Fear Dying with Open Eyes

Lately, you complain how thick dawn has been: you are barely
making out sigh from fog, or the vision of a deer's antler from
thickets. A knife speak into your wrist the way Moses' staff speak

the sea into two equal halves. You bleed and the red of it glows
into an aisle. Head out, boy. You are only 8 when I make you carry
a sack bag full of God. Look around, a piece of every man falls

to the ground___ bullet wounds with exit holes. This country is a
war, this war a country. Last night you collect your lover into
mouth the way the Atlantic ocean gulp down the Titanic:

Whole. You run from "How are you? How was today? Did you
die?" (Quitting WhatsApp conversations mid talk) How many
angels break their wings to call you beautiful___ God's very

image? Your light is dim, eyes like pairs of stars barely passing a
glint to the sky's face. My Little Candle___ burn, wax down,
become. My Little Alcove, your emotions run out like water

from a faucet, the gush from Jesus' side when pierced with a spear,
an hypovolemic, the testation for death. This is how love begins:
first, we fold our tongue into a bouquet of fine words.

Then we watch the magic of fusion and effusion, two skins
becoming one. Glue. Asterisk. Glue. What abacus owns a formula
for this communion? A chalice and a piece of bread on Christ's

hands is the closest scene to betrayal. Still, Love. An open wound is
another name for hell & scar is God's way of keeping us outside,
alive. Yet, inside your scar another wound opens to the

burrow of you, a Pantheon of legendary demons & ex gods. God!
If you place your ears to the wall you will hear your father's claws
dragging, that of his father and the fathers before them

dragging steady along fences. This is how to live a mark. Drag.