What Art Thou To Me

by | Feb 4, 2020 | Issue Thirteen, Poetry

To be honest, I may not

be much better than an insect,

masturbating while my son

cries himself to sleep. What art

Thou to me? Twists of cirro

-stratus, wisps and twists, a string

of geese unraveling below

the moon’s better half, nothing

stationary. You cut in

and out, a strange frequency,

a face hidden among the clouds,

a lamb’s, perhaps, shorn

and shriveled, scalded pink with wrinkles.

Why must you hide yourself? What’s

that all about? Augustine wants to see you

naked. What when You laid

these larva under my toenails; 

what when you swam upstream

into my urethra, what should I want?

What art Thou to me? asks

Augustine. I don’t even know

what I am to myself. 

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