EyesUpAce

My father's broken legs are a curse, formed from his father, and his father before him, trying to plant themselves in me. Badly damaged, they are strong enough to bear his weight. Those two legs, soft bred and pliant with possibilities at first, learned how to turn into something jagged and malformed. He walked in his own stifled way, toiled to make new muscles formed by old repetition, new bones grown from diseased marrow. My father has walked on broken legs for a lifetime and i have kept my legs in splints.

This is how I think of you:     That you are made of wide-frame glasses,     vegetables and dismissals; that you watch     Dogma and you do not know why they     bothered making the movie and then ask me to     put in something depressing so you can cry again. This is how I dream of you:     That you are standing outside of a residence hall     in the winter without any shoes; that you have no hair anymore     because your niece had leukemia and you cut it     all off to spite disease; that you flay your arms into     seventeen parts and I wake up screaming. And most of all, this is how I feel you:     That you smel