from without saying
xiii.
finding purchase
on slick ground
you put your bones back on
after the deathened
beer-breathed storm
and poor shit dance of
he’s saying he’ll bring it
down and lay me out in
hate and drag me and
shape me into what
he sees in himself
he’s upstairs
about to come
down with a gun
about to
about to
about to
about to—
you put your blown
roses back on and
willed them to knit
and catch
you guided your palms
into place
and raised your son up
and over the lake