Buckled > 21 Grams

Final Version

A pale, smooth, effortless,
branded past grazes across sliver ridges
ringing around the center of your fingertip.
Sliced by the mirror. Admired.

A paralyzing fate of serving time with his eyes closed.
A malfunctioning matter revoking the right to breathe.
A matter in the hands of others judging side by side.
Twisting their calloused thumbs, soft palms, crooked knuckles.
Judging the way he blinks.
Judging the way he dictates lost words.
Judging the way he grasps his thoughts in the upper left corner.

An urgent memo to the translucent
black cavity in his skull that his face must
wince when he hears blue jays sing into his canal.
That his tongue must swell when he brings the coldest,
purest mountain water to his lips.
That his eyes must melt when he wakes to sunrise.
And that his skin must unravel when he lies on a swaying golden hillside.

Buckles choke his veins, numbing his limbs.
Wires weave violently about the scratched Northern Oak.
Rustic tap water seeps from the sponge through the black ink veil,
colliding into the fear from his brow.

Screams from Hell scoff at his throat;
Death breathing in the mask now.
Voices muffle, chatter, enrage.
Impatient now.
No health benefits and
long hours pulls the switch now.
21 grams
l i g h t e r
now.