Brett Shaw
Survival School
If I track myself, I’ll know exactly
where I’ve been. Then
there’s no mystery. If
I ever find myself that
sure, surely
I’m dead. Having dug
down—these silver
veins; coin
in each back pocket. Even
at this depth, rain
wets lips. A worm
kisses plants in my hair— Surprised,
I hear
my parents calling,
It’s late. Through dirt,
the fireflies begin rising—
stipulations
i’m good with names,
terrible with conversations.
a perfect acquaintance,
an excellent american son—
my dead mother mentions
this, nodding
at the contract she places
in front of every person
i love— calling them,
standard. i’m an oil can,
servicing the whole lot.
savvy bargainers,
she mutters with
each departure, impressed
by potentials’
ability to vanish—
she hasn’t yet
realized what’s missing:
her arms holes
where leaves blow through—
signaling this
next season. in dreams,
her instructions
fly past—
cheap billboards—
screaming, everything
must go!