In which this luminous companion
broadcasts shovelfuls of shit
across your barely conscious face.

And memories like live munitions
parade past open windows,
demonstrations by deposed regimes

who’ve taken up in new domains
where they look like you
with straighter teeth.

An interrupted armistice
of which the day is spent in wake—
a trudge across the wilderness

that waited past “he’s leaving”
whose horizon is “he left”
as you ponder the utility of

body as weapon against itself,
subsisting on superlatives
and hired pharmaceuticals.

What privilege to witness young love.
How common to admit you’re lonely.

How grisly to cheer
your own vivisection,
cursing pinned-down purple organs

when perhaps you would be
better served to sever this appendage.
To disinvite the vanities

of standard-issue strangers
and handsome light that tumbles
absence to your pillowcase.

Rend your mourning dress
to find the jewels sewn in the hem.
Your inheritance abounds around you.

This breath. Now the next. Now another.

Tom Capelonga

Tom Capelonga

Tom Capelonga is a 29 year old native of New York City. His poems have appeared in FourTwoNine Magazine, Podium, and the Lambda Literary Poetry Spotlight. His Instagram @thechristopherstreetreader seeks to build community around a shared aesthetic appreciation of the gay 20th century.
Tom Capelonga

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