I

in the beginning there was only Him 

& He named me [          ]. in the beginning 

there was space between my fingers

& it smelled of iron & gunsmoke.

in the beginning i was [          ] &

there was a space between my eyelids 

that pounded out the rhythm of blood.

He named me [          ] He named me [          ]

how many fingers am I holding up?

how wide can you stand the stretch of my smile?

in the beginning i knew my face and it was mine

His. in the beginning He named me [          ]

i was the child & the monster & the poet &

the liar & the liar & the liar & the liar & the liar

& i was [          ] in the dark, begging for the sensation

that follows an inhale. He said [          ] there is no

violence in dying, only in the bloody act of living.

See these hands? See this mirror? See the teeth 

reflecting my throat in their gleam? to Him, 

there is only the dark, the hunger. i am the spaces 

between the hunger; the prey, the predator, the guilty, 

the guilty, the guilty, the guilty, the grave.

whose hands forced this bloody crown 

on your head? whose name lies stagnant on 

my tongue? i am looking for  [          ], i am

looking for [          ], i am looking, i am—

II

Sometimes I dream of the world that could have been

if you had pulled the trigger, if you had kept those

wicked pills down, if you had given us the gift

of your absence. But what does a body desire 

more than to continue living? What gasping attempts

at life must we cling to when the breath has been 

extinguished? I try to imagine the shape you refuse

to leave behind and it resembles a bullet hole in 

the drywall. A fist in the doorframe. A paddle

on this reddening skin. What is a memory if not a frozen

moment desperate to thaw? What is a bullet if not 

a moment in time stopped forever?

III.

What is a bullet if not a moment in time stopped forever?

IV

this is where i always return. little wild thing. thrust into the air. all gravity release. & here You are. holding me / I’m going there to see my father / why is it that we seem to remember the hands. the palms. the fingers. little homes of tiny nerves. itching to be touched. bloodlines & throughlines & plotlines edging their way back to today. / there is no sickness, toil, nor danger / let me tell you a story. let me tell you of the song in the back of my throat that is older than my skin. let me go back to the beginning of the beginning. to the time when your eyes were soft. to the time when not even the devil could touch you. to the time of Your mouth being a haven of music. / I’m going there, no more to roam / memory is a tricky thing. You slide your way through each chapter. leaving holes in the pages that turn your tongue sour. twist your tail around the word God. see how it takes the shape of Father. how many devils have claimed the title of fatherhood? all forked promise and bellowed rage. / I’m just going over Jordan / yet this is where i always return. You. on your back. in complete surrender to the sky. me. all joy and promise. only inches away. but today it feels like miles. both of us. laughing. this moment of stolen joy. before the fall. before the blood. before the rage & the rage & the rage & the rage. in this moment we are all of us children. we are all of us cradling ourselves. begging to be held. reaching for futures we cannot see. we open our mouths and speak the world new / I’m only going over home /.

V

Memory is a tricky thing.

I have spent my whole life

trying to remember you right.

If I am to believe you,

you never chased me 

through the back yard

turning play into fear 

into survival and screaming.

If I am to believe you,

you did not hold A up by

the collar and let her feet dangle

off the ground. insolent. disobedient.

If I am to believe you,

the door came off its hinges

of its own accord.

If I am to believe you,

my mother is a bitch and a liar

just like me. just like my sister

just like my brother. just like your 

motherbrothersisterfather.

just like everyone you have ever, never touched. 

If I am to believe you, 

then what version of reality

is mine, or yours, or the truth

or the lie?

VI