silas denver melvin
lineage, with one question
where did you come from?
can i say leaving?
can i tell you there was a pinhole of ink
eating the light before i was even born?
i come from the already dead, the stupid-drunk,
from a hereditary crazy that needs
to be walked like a great dane. can i say that?
can i say my bloodline is the wrong side
of a coin skipping against asphalt?
that i am an atomic shadow, a blip in the creek,
just one pebble in the shoe passed down
like a scrap of linen touched too many times
to resemble anything at all. yes, i come from
leaving. a legion of ghosts. a trail of coke
on the windowsill, the crumpled bill flecked
with tar, sweat, the ocean’s calculated churn
that cured no one. i come from a good measure
of misery: diabetes or heart failure. special cancer.
the car in the driveway with its headlights
throwing yellow over a patch of gravel,
one foot dangling out the door,
no pulse in
the wrist, the skin
already loosening,
the cartons of icecream
puddling sugarmilk
in the backseat,
in the bad
June heat.