Broken Ghazal For Osteoarthritis

By Anonymous

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.

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