(a poem in the form of an interview)
Do you know why you’re here?
A gathering of crows. Some ossified bone dances. My great-grandmother’s shovel bathed in the blood of tulips.
Where were you on the night of the howling moon?
Chained in the foul rag shop of the waning mouth. Opening cans of poached dispair with the edges of my teeth. Being born.
What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?
I stepped on a heart in the street.
Was it on purpose?
It was somewhere between 5th and Byway.
What did it feel like?
I thought it would be more resilient. And taller.
What do you want to say that I didn’t ask?
Something about being true to yourself. How sometimes wings grow in the feathered lashes of our eyes. That sound an egg makes when it cracks in the fist of your undoing.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written on the Bolt Bus.
Time Taken 5 miles.
Brain on the way the wheels go round. Also on this poem — http://english.louisiana.edu/rougarou/Content/p-Vitoria_la-petite-mort.html — which inspired the interview form.