cough in your throat, snake
in the woodpile, outside, the
poets remember too loudly—
quiet, please, time is passing.
every morning cracks us
open like a boxer’s teeth,
every day we sit in the shade &
think god, somebody has got to
do something about all these weeds.
this is the order of the earth; first
land & then the concept
of land. next
the rain sells our secrets
back to us. next
we are strangers in this
town we love. next
the house, after much
deliberation, burns down. next
we are strangers everywhere
else as well. we huddle close to whisper
we swallow the pulse of the stars we
divide our love like robbery cash we
swallow the pills at sunrise we take
turns at the wheel we record everything
we swallow the absence until it is gone
& forgive all we can bear. everything
has a place. i am afraid ours might be
clutching our knees to our chest on the curb
outside the hospital. i am afraid every poem
might become a curse, like ivy strangling our
memory with romance. i am afraid when
i remember but also when i’m asleep.
every night we embark on the journey of
persephone—a total eclipse of the limbic
system.
no but really, this is the order
of the earth;
first a boy gets cut out
in the shape of a sky, next
a boy learns why no other
boy is in the shape of a sky, next
i carry my heartburn with
me down the street like a glass bird next
a morning cracks the window
of the house & we slip into it
next a seizure performs the labor
our bodies are too frail for next
we become at last familiar
to all things, just long enough
that it becomes our job to
pull up all the goddamn weeds
Tyler King is a nonbinary poet in Columbus, Ohio. They are formerly the editor of the online literary magazine Flail House Press, and their work has appeared in Ghost City Press, mutiny! magazine, The Louisville Review of Books, and other places.