Wounds That Kill, Wound Us All, and: Break, 2020

Abstract

Wounds That Kill, Wound Us All, and: Break, 2020 Sean William Carrero (bio) Wounds That Kill, Wound Us All Morning's dry tongue receives no forgiveness.I know as much about deathas chicken gizzards know how to be eaten,or how to put the wind into boxes,pierce a dark room with my body,and make and unmake myself again. I fold what I know about death into memory,as much as little David knows, how hediscovered his mother's divorce from lifea wound in the backyard after school. Sinfulbefore heaven, she dead. Warfare never truly restores order,but transforms everything else that stays alive. There was no one else to clipthe eldest's toenails, leavered lipstick on my pale face annuallyor get excited about the Wizard of Oz. No one else to keep us, our little familyfrom sewing blank seeds in the garden.No one to fight the cotton mouth there. This poison stains us instead of your lipstick.I know as much about death as chicken gizzardsknow how to be eaten as an appetizer annually. [End Page 152] I am the size of a centimeter on a yard stick,thrash my boy fists into the rug floor foreverfeel rugged anger brush my knucklesalive without her. I foldwhat I know about death, lessthan what my cousin saw firsthand,a human body against a backyard treea bullet pierced clean through her brain.A poem reads differently when that poet has died.I read you distorted after you have died. [End Page 153] Break, 2020 In the middle of thousands dyingI learn how to come back home.The first and last time I ordercurbside pickup it's steak dinnerfor an ex, her son, and me.What is learned from the monotonyfits inside a pigeon pea: my small car,teaches me how to come back home.The UPS man came so oftenhe knew us by name back then.All performance. All pageantryfits inside a pigeon pea,all of the tragedy in Hollywood, FLteaches me how to come back homefits inside a pigeon pea.I learn from monotonyhow to pack everything insidemy small car, drive across three states.In the galley kitchen, the belly of a whale,her son begins unpacking our steakdinner alone. Typically, he' d never do that.Familiar the way eyes blink to catchthe moon, just the gistof it in the sky's mouththe sky says moon be gone.She speaks on the phone.This is a ghost signal. Callit a shell pluckedfrom the beach stuffedin your silent pocket. A dancestep out of time. Grazestoo close to the devil's tail. [End Page 154] Sean William Carrero sean william carrero holds the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing degree from the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. Carrero's poetry appears in Angel City Review and Ellipsis Literary Journal. He is from Hollywood, FL. Copyright © 2023 University of North Dakota