The Wind Needs To Blow Through Here

p
o
e
m
s

when his fork clinks against the breakfast plate,

my day is lit by a covetous rage, a fist swollen with

 

a hunger for the freshest passages of air I can quickly

forge through him and now a much less civilized feeling

 

has knotted itself inside my throat, over every word

on my tongue, about to break inside this fucked-up air.

 

I am trying to teach us both to keep our hands to

ourselves, so I slide by him and decide against any

 

bloody, unfortunate appearances on the news or on

my mother’s face at the table this early on Thursday.

 

I want to drive nails through every letter of his name but

we happen to share a name we just so happen to not

 

wear outside and dead men have manufactured this house

this way, where only one last name spills onto applications

 

and I don’t trust his absence or his chew or his trips to a

bathroom where he takes too long for us to believe. I am

 

too overprotective of a house too many men who loved me

have died in and he lays on the just laundered, barely lilac

 

tablecloth, cream cheese pound cake from his mother who

wants to pay for him in this sweet way and I abandon

 

my attempts at what I viewed in the video but I still want

to know if it will do any kind of comparable work on him.

A. H. Jerriod Avant is a recipient of two poetry fellowships from the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown.

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Further Reading

 November 19

In Widows, what should cause tonal whiplash is, in Steve McQueen’s hands, disquieting, exhilarating: capital-R Real.

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