Charles O'Melia
cutlery flung
crack-violent education,
writ red on six-year-old cheek-
stained mosaic blue-purple,
thrust strongarm
into cabinet, into wall, into
rust-red carpet. in-
herited angry fingers, cut-
lery flung; shout, child.
In a Hospital’s Gym
Behind inwardly-locked doors,
they let him shoot on a basket
that would not adjust above nine feet.
The awkwardness of his adolescent limbs
settled into grace;
the nurses watched,
and talked about their kids,
and their student loans.
He never considered missing.
Like he could almost remember
a younger, better, version of himself.
In a Newly-Bought House
The vacancy of it invited possibility.
Green, watery sunlight filtered in,
spilling the floor.
A chair, which we kept, was too small for a grown person,
and faced inwards.
We dripped words to each other.
The ours gathered us.