Short chapbook with underlying themes of guilt and sacrifice, met with a tinge of nostalgia and things you know you shouldn't be doing.
out hands are staunch against a red raspberry stain, fingers propped up on the chest like how the jetty juts out into the bay. our collars starched and folded just so-
to be proper and polite, the balance between being polished and impoverished, so we can look pleasing like gentlemen orphans
bleeding graciously in the middle of the street.
throw your window open and the curtains flutter out w/ your shirt tails, damp, waist slung suspenders following suit. us sitting with our long arms dangling over the edge of our shoulders, laden with syrups, salts, and the world’s favorite aphrodisiacs. i can taste the remnants of a life left on your shirt cuffs,
imperceptible discolorations following one another like ants, a breadline, or soft rosary beads. praying, alive in the oddest ways and dying spectacularly in others.
Also contains Chapter Two of my newest novel project, entitled "the Beginnings of the Household Gods" and other works.