My plague turned eighteen
this year, christened in grade school
trailers, an adult now. If you push
a cowlick in the opposite
direction, it’ll seep out slowly
until it’s flying wires & weird
waves the evangelicals say
don’t align with our values
while I’ve been self-portrait
as who the fuck is the god
of my understanding & how
do I find them, sticking out
my thumb on the side
of the road, doleful quest
that always ends with being
dropped off in the same place
I started. Driving toward ruin
with my own two hands, tearing
my flesh until it splits in a million
sick pieces. My manual labor
is exhaustive work, an honest
living — incorrigible, tearing, tearing,
slacker! The moon was out
at noon, a relic of darkness
rimming the sky & I decided
to be happy that day but couldn’t
remember how to make it
last. One of many rebellions
of my body. Fist shimmying
the plug out of every socket.
Click here to read Anna Drasko on the origin of the poem.
Image by Pierre Goiffon on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
