Job 4
Blue card stock and bold Garamond,
elementary words for elementary rules,
in the high whisper of puberty
italicized secrets of incredulity.
Stretched out on hidden cove carpet tiles,
with Mead's wide ruled stuck into texts;
his brother juggled torches the night before
they shipped him off to Iraq.
Anesthesia dried her sister's lips, they turned
as milk and water in nausea, like her
second degree burn, when her father tore
off the coffee soaked cotton sweats
but the melted skin was shred off as well.
Each one must tell, their unfortunate gospels,
the time in black Sharpie on back of the hand,
and the sweat smeared name on the palm.
Surely, my sarcasm, now underwritten, with
overblown activity. How can we keep from speaking?
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