mor / bid

1: He says the word like it's good for me,
confirming his chokehold
on the words in the room.

2: His stuffed shirt is pathological.

3: At night, I read the essays, scratchings
of lives abraded. 

      We can't help our preoccupations,
     our journeys to the absolute monarchy
     of what happens.

4: I dream the statue, feet of clay,
leaving behind as evidence
my proofreader's marks.

5: But he didn't move, says the hit-and-run

6: The sister, pierced through the nose,
writes in the last row of the classroom.
He was in a damn wheelchair.
He was in a damn wheelchair.

© Tori Grant Welhouse