Mohole Flower

By | 15 September 2022

Ink on paper: David Medalla: 1967

Funny how we don’t need alcohol anymore
to get each other to open. There is a thin
em dash along our mouths where confessions
no longer shimmy, the silence becoming our own
way of telling each other: let me in. The last time
I let anyone touch me this close, I was learning
how to aim a gun. For the last few December
thirty-firsts my grandfather took my hands in his and we
shot at the bathroom wall. It was New Year’s Eve and everyone
in my neighborhood had something shaking
in their hands. How common it is to mistake our hands
for explosives. Napalm knuckles, dynamite fingers. Today my father
roars for the same rooster fight over and over, and my brother
plays Fortnite again, aims like a blind man
waist-deep in need for color, the way
koi needs water to breathe, the way I need pain
to remember. I shoot at the concrete again
and again so it remembers—a black hole in the wall
where a memory should be.

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