“But imagine where you’ll be in four years.”
Their words, empty repetition, hung
like a dying promise I never knelt for,
white intention marred by light ignorance.
It’s our own fault for buttoning our lips, screwing
our jaw. The same arms singing me to bed,
labored the pedestal for the cancer.
It wasn’t diamonds in her eyes, devouring
my youth, but babies have a knowledge too,
maybe more, and still adorned in coils
of shredded innocence we hear their petrified lips,
ignoring the arithmetic, qualified fractures,
and equating worth to wealth.