A Drunk by Daniel Eberle-Mayse
Neanderthals
Fall through
My guts
And battle to break me
Beat my bones into
Shapes that I dread.
My great grandpa
Shotgun blasted
A hole in the middle of my chest
Before it was possible
For me to be dead.
Even in dreams I
get muddled
by ghosts
of memories I know
that I haven’t had,
yet, slipping.
A thousand dead drunks
Not bacchanalian or godly
In any sense
All grab at my ankles.
Sad specters in sepulchers, brains
Wet, dripping
I like this.
ReplyDeleteAlthough, every time I hear/read/think of the word "sepulcher," I think about Mrs. Miller and her goddamn vocab. stories.