WHAT AM I IF NOT

by John Grey

A portrait

I can no longer escape–

absence

takes up so many

of her positions–

I’m a stripped Phillips screw,

a dripping gas tank,

a twisted, crumpled compass,

and, behind all this,

agony stirred into a different kind of intensity–

if only these sensations

would callus,

the red hot blood clot–

I’m rat-haired,

larcenous,

a craven coyote on a long flat desert highway–

leaning against reflection,

a crude joke,

a maggot magnet,

shirtless

and running into stores

thinking they’ve got something for me–

a loaded shotgun maybe,

a human skull,

a jaunty doll whose head comes off with one twist–

my copper ends are frayed,

limbs are gnarled,

thighs chafed,

local gangs occupy the neighborhood of my gut–

I’m a scream on its knees

and praying.