2018 Arden Goettling/Academy of American Poets Prize

 

 

When will I be allowed to 

open carry my grief 

without someone shooting that down too?

 

Just because you draw your weapon quick 

doesn’t mean  I  haven’t already 

died on you;

I win by

being an ignored body, occasionally corpse, of proof.

It depends on the day—did I

ride the tail of a hearse on my way 

to work not remembering even getting in the car

or do I realize I’m a main attraction of this procession?

Did I wake up with my eyes closed, already in my coffin

unable to stop it or smell the flowers sent by those I love?

Living will become dialectic,

an attempt to determine where you are if you aren’t 

six feet under.

 

Currently I conceal carry my phrases

[ _ _ _ _ you ].

_ _ _ _  in the blanks yourself, I feel too much like I’ve done too much already. Besides,

 

I don’t have this kind of time, I

know because I never don’t hear the ticking of that glock and

—I don’t get that kind of sleep, anymore.

Still, I wear me out policing myself against you:

trigger tongue and hold hostage thoughts

throat-holstered, but how nice a feeling sometimes

having my teeth sunk into a tongue that

isn’t mine.

The nodding of my head isn’t agreement

that’s recoil, 

threat and an echo, promise and a compromise, thought and prayer

fun and games until—                                       .

 

Is it good when you love that pistol?

I bet it is I know the 

metal taste I taste it in the bite I give my lip when

I want your noise to stop and my

friends to start being alive again I think I

taste it now I think it has become the essence of my breath