who suggested this poem for us via our Contact page. pdf version of Crush HERE or buy the book on Amazon HERE.Ī wave of thanks and gratitude to Josie F.

To see the poem in its original format, you may read it in a. I tried to get the line formatting as close to Siken’s as possible. I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time. Swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of bloodīut we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can doĪbout the blood in your mouth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this. What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth. Grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through a glassīut more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out of We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars Scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt. His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before, Replete with the tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes

Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us, Had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed. The old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers, It wasn’t until we were well past the middle of it So we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

Very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. The way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desireĮveryone could see the way his muscles worked,Īnd rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his Green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool– Trying to define a room he is outside of. Over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters. History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop, I’m sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart. Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure. I like himĪnd I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought. Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknifeĬarves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone. The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night

Richard siken