I do this impression of myself,
only not so funny –
husband, father, provider –
overcooking meat for my family,
charring the remains of a chicken or two
because I too am bitter I cannot fly.
Take that, flight! Take this, flame!
Take that, once-living creature
whose severed muscle has become my meal!
Everything I do, I do less well
than my grandfathers would have.
I regret the mounds of junk in my garage,
the crusted floorboards of my dented car,
my toolboxes full of bent nails and drywall dust,
takes me thirty minutes to find a screwdriver
and then I’m unsure what to do with it.
Something about twisting, tightening,
firming up the loose or leaky connections
of my life. Probably
I should be a vegetarian
but my heart would miss the blood
and here I am thinking of you reaching for me
after the children go to bed,
thinking of your flesh and form –
fire that cannot be contained in a metal box,
not even this very fancy one of chrome and black
which we picked out together at Lowe’s
or maybe it was Target.

By Amorak Huey

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