Thursday, 20 July 2017

A poem by James Diaz

Tonight We Go Darkly Or Not At All


bring a little salt for the back roads
drive hazy against winter

battery arsenal of sleep
of turning
the bright frame against the light
since shattering took its place
on the floor
and the sky withholding like a mother

the skin's route
aches
untraveled

fortitude is the gift pain brings
twenty thousand shadows
along the hoof prints of forgetting

where we were
what our love couldn't do
fully formed,
abiding

hung out to dry and highways
with no exit
the angel on the roof is mad
an absence torn

medicated moon
calling us across the empty lot

this is what not forgiving does

words materialized in your other memory
the unnamed place in you

immunity of a mother tongue
a fossilized scar.










James Diaz is the founding editor of the literary arts & music journal Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared most recently in HIV Here & Now, Foliate Oak, Chronogram, and Apricity. His first book of poems, This Someone I Call Stranger, is forthcoming from Indolent Books (2017.)

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