My mother flew in—
we drove somberly
from all direction
a reverse vacation
emergency
uninvited and overstaying
its welcome
over the river
a bridge too far
Grandma’s daughter
announced our arrival
yet we are lost
in spite and
inside of
uncle’s spiral
he bled her dry
feeding her nothing
except burnt toast
so at least she’d stay alive
and to keep her warm
he gathered enough garbage
to block out the sky
Not a home, but a pigsty
where not even the rats
could stand a chance
among the mice, mummified
and why
are there hundreds
of rusty knives
beneath his bed
next to photos of women
he took
in various stages
of undress?
We attempt to clean
but stay busy
gagging
dry heaving
with nowhere to turn
is it bile
or another
lump in our throat
neglected, in spite
of the burn
both toilets are full
of attempted
dysentery
and if you’re thirsty
there are plenty
of bottles
of piss
(his collection of S.O.S.
in jaundice)
All I want to ask:
why do we say uncle
in place of
mercy
when impacted
like rooted bone
decayed to fang
agape, he
has been
extracted
Gabriel Hart is a writer from California’s high desert. His two volumes of poetry Unsongs and Hymns From the Whipping Post are out now. His debut novel On High At Red Tide will be out in spring ’24 from Pig Roast Publishing.
Back Patio Press 