two new poems...

Lot

Where a man’s wound is, that is

where his genius will be.

-Robert Bly

I’m telling my mom about an

art exhibition I went to last

week. About Lot’s wife and

the war and looking back. And

she asks if she ever told me her

story about Lot’s wife. And

I say no and she chuckles and

says that she doesn’t know how

or when but somehow she got it

in her little girl head that Lot’s

wife was none other than Lady

Liberty, that Bronze Statue

in New York, the symbol of

America, a gift from France.

And she’s still chuckling at

herself when I say I prefer

her version of the story. That

somehow her little girl head

dreamed big. Saw light leading

the way. Rather than damnation.

For looking back, which really

means to honor, which really

means to love. I tell my mom

I prefer her version. At this

moment in this corner of my

world. And the messiness

of my mind. Trying to cling

to light.

Redacted

She says I’m good at telling

stories and I think she’s giving

me a compliment until I see

the snarl in the corner of her

upturned right cheek. And I’m

confused and wait for more from

this new friend as we sip our

respective matcha drinks. And

I begin to understand that

what she calls story I call spin.

What she calls self-deception,

I call survival. From an

unfiltered script—sort of slasher

meets snuff that no one could

ever see. Even me. So as I sit

and sip my green fizzy matcha.

Filled with flavonoids that feed

my mind and nourish my

blood. Or so I choose to believe

I think of this new friend who

knows less than a pinkie what

shit my heart had to know and

the stories that had to be told.

To drag me out of hell. And

sit my ass here. And give me

the gift of knowing what to say.

To whom. And when.