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a brief self-history

By Robin Gow From Issue No. 8

screen saved into orange. whirl & firework daddy perched on the roof. a string to tie all my worries up with. do you know how to wrap a present? i do not. i wrap god in paper towels. he’s leaking milk all over bathroom floors. windowsill all over are giving up. a single bone can vibrate into a new animal or become a remote control. tap water love-making. salt water cleanse. keep a tray of salt by the backdoor. i want to be banished from somewhere. handfuls of cherry tomatoes. a coach to sleep on. spilling from the ceiling fan. octopus me in the bathtub tonight. i’m choking on trumpet. i’m surrounded by shrapnel. we talk in hushed voices about our last nickels. laundromats open in my imagination. you cannot love everyone just because you love them. a chicken coop for you & a chicken coop for me. cracked wood. cracked fingernails. a worried fissure in the drywall. from the bathroom hole i listen to my neighbor cough & cough & cough. he’s spitting warships into the bathtub. my soap melts quickly. spider parachutes. my glass forget-me-nots open like august. whose pulse is this behind the curtain? the last time i cried all my tears turned to fat hot flies so no thank you not in this body. a backyard on a CD. no entrance. not here. there is a rough iron gate. he loves me so much. he loves me so very very much.

About Robin Gow More From Issue No. 8