Our days are made out of bricks and posters
taped above our beds tell a story of polio
bonfires and a fair trial locally. Where we gather
the snow is spoiled with cigarettes. We bless
our god and say, God bless us. Your blood is not
old and ours is not made of water. We send cautions
half again the size of boots. What we call night
has nothing to do with the sun. To us, nightfall involves
how close our dogs keep to the ground and whether
they’ll be feeding on grass. We number your hesitations
and love to see how panic telescopes as if suddenly
you saw yourself in another almost like the room you’re
in. Every word you speak followed by a gasp. It’s all
you can do to remember that once this body was once
that body. You wonder at your scalloped curtains
and marvel at our resourcefulness. The difference between
us and you is the difference between a person who
has decided to go on living and the ones who just stay
alive. The promises we’ll make are endless. Before you fight
back ask yourself, do I really have it in me? Even our jokes
are beautiful as we sit around drinking cheap beer
and eating livers soaked in milk. Ask yourself what kind
of man only bares himself in sleep? Beware the mattress
beware the split rail fence. In the end, we’ll say, what doesn’t
happen is what kills you. And we’ll say this as we kill you.