from sam lucero
when did you keep god under your tongue,
an uninvited pill
from that plastic nurse behind a wall,
and reaching out to hand you an orange
in a paper cup made in L.A.
for whom did your milky eyes blur,
or from whose unseen stare did the water
of your ribs buckle and hide
when you knew that worship was a mask we
that rituals and skin
give us a tendency to forgot how to say no?
i was born in a summer cage that sold
whispers to me
in body-sized trash bags, flung at donation
trucks where you wait and
where you drive up and pry a hole, pull out
unwanted secrets you can take home
and cherish as yours from other people’s
unglamorous lives; a boy scout’s book
on how to make a fire.
a girl scout’s book about how to cook on it.
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