Let it Rise and Seperate
There's a tweak in the weather forecast
that reminds me of displaced anger.
How a punch displaces teeth, rubber
bullets a crowd, my voice displaced
from my body when calling, does it hurt?
upwind from small commotions—so much
for clear warning signals. There are times
I go hunting for what I haven't lost, never
domesticated: the slamming of a revolving
door at two a.m, my virginity, a god displaced
by a fascination with one's own anatomy.
What the water—a rusted lake—can't devour,
swims in my body until I, a land-burdened animal,
come up for air. A gasp is like a commitment
to bipedal motion. The way I best escape.
What I can't keep in, will rise to the top.