Ry Frazier

Illustration by James Conant

Wretch And Wrench, Bomb And Blister

this cavity is more than the morose four a.m. phonecall
ridicule or a stunted growth in swaddling clothes (or
upset stomachs hammered into literal pieces).

in these ways i am building myself from whicker:
No instantaneous rewind of bottles emptied beneath
a healing clock-moon, a losing dart game aimed to
postpone your last or any call.

      I've asked and you have answered with roadmaps.

      to quote the somnambulist,
      like ten thousand before:
      a cavity is often more than bee stings and emptied cribs,
      reloads along the ocean's turmoil.
      I'll only beg a trick candle on this cake
      so eyes scratch hands, a slight startle in our
      wrists.

      groaning marble gods
      carved on top of tinfoil monuments,
      duller than
      skeleton keys forced into jail-cell doors,
      raw as gums that hum and bleed and hysterical
      like filled bellies screwed into the awful
      pink mess of drunk-for-christmas,
      drunk-for-new-year's, lucky-around-now.

      A smiling architect plays empty roulette in
      the burned out casino of each instant.

My cavity is more like your absence spread over
an hour's width of purpose & the constant follow of
ants toward dust. The slowed misery of a forceful,
opened evening.

      Is something like "Come home soon".