After He Said The End
I want to turn over
my phone
like a stone
to see if he likes me
if he really really likes me
and I think
how easy it is
to look at a tree
and not think
about blame
which is the same
as thinking
about blame
or the distance
between his chin
and his cock
like a quick little trip
to the grocery store
past the cemetery
and the nail salon
where I sat
in his idling car
and watched
the wipers
clear the view
again and again
I change my life
and I change my
life and I change
my life and I don’t
want to think
about love anymore
or the abstract
meat of his thigh
or the dream
in which I am high
and mom is high
and dad is high
and everyone
laughs and eats
little skewers of food
with melon and ham
and no
I don’t want to say
something new
about forgiveness
or the way the sky
keeps trying
to be itself
which is not a self
but a freshly
scraped tongue
I once thought
there was a center
to the self, tree-
ringed, marble
hearted, a re-
telling of a telling
of the time
I was a child
and dad
leaned over the bed
like a freshly minted ghost
while once upon a time
bled down the back
of his throat
and after he said
the end
I asked him
to leave
the closet door open
just enough
to let the dark out
Patrick Dundon lives, writes, and teaches in Portland, OR. He is a graduate of the MFA program at Syracuse University where he served as Editor-in-Chief for Salt Hill Journal. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue, Hobart, BOAAT, The Collagist, Sixth Finch, The Adroit Journal, Birdfeast, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere.