Broken Ghazal For Osteoarthritis
again, you come a patient scythe. first for my grandfather, how you tongued
the vitals, made home an empty bowl. now, my father, his tongue,
barbed, unfolds a whisper: i have it too. we sit in the car. i watch you chew
the cartilage like a wolf—the bones jagged, dressed in red, tonguing
familiar fruit. (this can’t happen. this can’t happen.) i sit watching
you harvest my father’s voice: i have it too— tonguing
the city of teeth, first, like my grandfather. now, my father looks at me,
eyes thin as a leather belt, unthreads it’s hereditary. my tongue
breaks into a silence, makes home a feathered throat. (this can’t happen.
luther, this can’t happen.) the car pulls into the driveway, a tongue
wanting a way in. we hear you nest inside my father’s palm—knuckles
cackle, cackle. the garage door a white mouth, spills its black tongue
as it opens. you don’t move. we sunder under you
like a monolith. i’ll admit, i’m afraid of you. name a blade to my tongue.
i sit. you drink my father. bone by bone. i open the car door,
hear you croon like the metals tossing. breaking against the air.