Stations of the Cross
The world’s loneliest dog sprawls across
the bristled deck of being alive. Some days
I’m so content that air whistles through my teeth.
My psychiatrist and I spend most sessions talking
about British thrashcore bands. He told me to listen
to Slammer, but I haven’t yet. I picked up the prescription.
I say, doctor, are you sure it’s not the world
that’s driving me crazy? I spent the whole night
believing my heart was a rotting peach.
A magnet driven through my skull. The doctor
grinds a poultice and heats his stones.
I accidentally walked into the women’s room
at the church on Powers Street, and spent the evening
fighting tears, but the tears fought back,
scrambled like lemmings toward the ledge
of my eyes. It wasn’t even a church
that celebrates suffering. It wasn’t
stuffed with gold. I bet the pastor wore chinos.
Something squeezed the marrow from my bones.
Every April, the maple tree in front of my apartment
sprouts a noose. A little candied death. I hold this
in its proper dialectic: smash two stones together
and light pours out. Am I ungrateful?
I’m more grateful than anything dead could ever be.