This is how it begins.
Two windows, licking each other’s chests.
The eye in their shared crotch, bleeding like a horse.
I don’t have the funds needed to perish. Do you?
Do you really? The ATM of my veins splayed on the chopping board for the fifth time
This month, and I still don’t have money on my card.
This isn’t slaughter. But maybe laughter. Maybe.
Here are the places your body sucks, like cannibalism.
Whoever said that distance was the best medium an artist
Could embrace needs to spend some time washing the tears from their
Mother’s hair. Seriously- did you really think that I could afford
To be ironic about the family I’ve helped bury? I’ve never even seen
A wad of cash large enough to buy myself back from whatever the fuck
Is waiting on the other side of dying.
Here’s something better: the lights gouged of their breath. Blue husks
under which we make birth. Better: Water choked into silence,
Like breathing pangs.
Is it still freedom if you were beaten into it? Do you know
How many times I’ve thought about opening my wrists
Just to witness a river crawl on all fours back to the ground?
Even in this, I’m impoverished.
No one I come from
Has the time to bury a child.
My family could never afford to entertain.
Ian Powell-Palm is a writer, poet, and musician currently living in Belgrade, Montana. His work attempts to interrogate familial trauma, sexual identity, and the resurrection of the dead. You can find more of his work on Instagram at the username @Ipowellp16.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.