I. Tarmac eve
A woman
washing and shaving the head
of her still
wasted
Son
Veins -
mazed on his temples
remind her of poppy seeds
II. Dark room
It is a truth universally held silent
That ignorance is strength here
And kaleidoscopes but broken gla** and light
That photographs portray a war long wrapped
And moments last a lifetime here
III. Strand
…At least there used to be. Real ones, I mean
writing sh** that f**s with your brain like no IED ever could, you know.”
“For real? What happened to them?”
“Conscription, I guess.”
IV. Young bucks
crackling empty cans of nectar
scraping straps of bloody fluff
from branchless antlers
scars will sprout
while heat turns sand to masks of gla**
embraced someday by second hands
V. Extra, extra
Her insistence on the shriveled fact
that all buzz cuts feel like velvet
if only hands would iron
in due direction of growth
VI.
You'll never guess what happened, ma