“When you were going back to Guam”
Tears in your sandals
made of sand
your father was home
but your mother was alone
split garden shears, splints
and roaming roses
did if you breathe your fog breath
in the mud room
and you played a gold guitar
in the sparkling stars of weighted blankets
and straitjackets
as if this arrow could be straight
enough to point print
lovelies to the shining sun
your burnt hands
pale legs, wrung pleated skirt
let go this twisted weekend
braid your mother always home
your father was lonely too
the lizards stretched
and breathed a smile
caught sunning on the deck’s skin
like if the shark is a wolf’s friend
like a shadow
and this ghost ship will plant you
in future deities.
nicholauspatnaude 