Nick Flynn Poems
|1.||If This is Your Final Destination||4/6/2016|
|3.||My Mother Contemplating Her Gun||4/6/2016|
|4.||Self-exam (my body is a cage)||4/6/2016|
|5.||Belly of the Beast||4/6/2016|
|6.||Cathedral of Salt||4/6/2016|
|7.||Elsewhere, Mon Amour||4/6/2016|
|8.||Alan Dugan Telling Me I Have A Problem With Time||1/13/2003|
|11.||You Asked How (Formerly Even Now She Is Turning, Saying Everything I Always Wanted Her To Say)||1/13/2003|
|14.||Cartoon Physics, Part 1||1/13/2003|
|15.||Bag Of Mice||1/13/2003|
I go back to the scene where the two men embrace
& grapple a handgun at stomach level between them.
They jerk around the apartment like that
holding on to each other, their cheeks
almost touching. One is shirtless, the other
wears a suit, the one in the suit came in through a window
to steal documents or diamonds, it doesn't matter anymore
which, what's important is he was found
& someone pulled a gun, and now they are holding on,
awkwardly dancing through the room, upending
a table of small framed photographs. A chair
topples, Sinatra's ...
It nests in the hollow of my pelvis, I carry it with both hands, as if
offering my stomach, as if it were pulling me forward.
At night the sun leaks from it, it turns cold, I sleep with it
beside my head, I breath for it.
Sometimes I dream of hammers.
I am hammering it back into sand, the sand we melt into glass,