Building a Forte from Your Nightmares.

My desire is wrapped

in tight space
under the bed

how many buggymen
for this recount?

The cat knocked the small stereo off the dresser during the night

simulated rain muffled
into the carpet.

I had just watched my father get beaten to death, rather
not beaten to death but beaten enough for a heart attack to finish him.

I was next.

Healthy men grabbed my arms. Then I woke. And now,

here I am
drinking coffee on the back stoop like nothing happened.

The sun hide between two trees. I was fine with it. 

My desire is loosely knit

a braid of hair
a strand
gets plucked from your mouth 200 miles away.

You think childhood:
building a forte for your nightmares
out of sheets, chairs,
kissing Cynthia under the card table.

Her red hair caught in your braces
tasted of iron, copper pennies, blood

suckled from your scrapped knee, theater curtains draping your shin.
You wouldn't tell anyone how you fell in the first place,

but regret, even
20 years later

ever telling Cynthia her kiss was like one of your nightmares.