foxfire testament

You were so lawless last I saw you

slow dancing lonesome Sarah Palmer 

in the basement. You spoke smokily

of prophets leaning on wooden rakes 

in the toothy sun over Paraguay. I never 

said my share of apologies. I wrote off 

the foxfire testament, buried the book 

like it was your body pale and receding. 

I ripped photos of you, rolled them into 

cigarette filters and fucked all your rivals 

in their peach coloured dorms. You took

to the omniscience of road maps. Left

shards of cd’s on your front lawn to melt

in the dry dirt. I’m still bleeding through

the same stitches. You can and should 

rub salt into the cracks. 

I saw truth and then the hair on your ass 

and then rent checks on your mother’s coffee table. 

You punched the vanity mirror and rubbed your fist 

into the broken glass. Other than that you measured 

the faith out into hand bound books and watched 

the Juan de Fuca grow darker from your balcony. 

Then anxiety bled out of hometown backyards 

and into your ernest blue lungs. I know you 

left for a righteous reason. My mother just

prayed me gone like shitty weather or calls

from Collections. I know it’s colder where you 

are now. There, sunlight dies behind a treed hill 

with an electric crucifix on top. I may never see 

the vapour leave your blistered lips. 

When I stare through my hands it’s like last light through bare branches.

You’ll never know how all this death got into my eyes and under my nails.