Knuckle Poem Written at the End of a Tumultuous April



In my throat I hold it--
That roused note which swaggers and sways remorse
The way only this delay in the
fascia of time, intelligence and incongruous muscle
know to do.

Gawking, scoffing, I wobble.

Obliterate the fumbling of it.
Wrist bone that hones its unbeknownst belongings—
Atrocities, atonements, artifacts, artifices
for uttering shit too loudly;

It is my tibia that has shaken.

And this mulled over audience has swollen to more
than just one eyelid and peers back
before my knuckles, shiny, shiny knuckles,
ultimately shoot their juice.

It’s the release that drenches my shorts, the jaw line and lips.

I’ve glazed my knuckles rouge, and
now, I am pinned at the ankles and
wrists like a huffing hog languishing in
the good wooden slats of this strong man’s floor.