photogenicsmiles

I. when the boy drawn to priesthood kissed me, his mouth burned. with triple-layer onion skin and a crucifix tongue, he tumbled down from a cloud at 9 and snapped his legs in half. for six nights, the siren sounds bled into mourning. II. all great men are bound to fracture. when a bone twists into fury, breathe sharply through your nose – three times like siren song – and recall the scent of your mother’s perfume. III. we hang wet clothes in the closet in the habit of mistaking good men for heroes. for so long, i have not had a hero. my father stomachs the blow of scarred mouths and ambulance bells. the boy cloake