At the foot of
this mountain you
are the boy alone
again: there is
a word rusted
to the back of
your throat: a deer
shed what was
burning: velvet-
tipped building
of its own bones
gnarled from
its soft head: you
find it warmed
near a trunk with
long neck-wound
shapes scratched
into wet pine bark
like how our names
looked before
being so tongued
by America: &
that gleaming
double-helix of
your dried uvula
blackens to
ash: your grandson
will greet you
tonight: you’ll weep—
praying: word
for word in
a sound like
a beggar plucked
of his teeth.