When We Take You Home
I dont remember the forest
or the language
the path of my name out
from your mouth I have killed
to smother the embers
flaked pink in your ashes
we carry you into the forest
after cutting into you
a snake unearthed
we pin with the axe
& bury the head
we dress you with the rattle
instead of strapping you down
putting you in the sky
I leave your song
for the birds
even decapitated the jaws sing
all reflex & snap shut
to remember
I go into the forest listening
Arms are Arms
winter comes & rats
fill our home we hope each
other doesnt notice
they say rats gnaw
their legs off
when trapped
mom says work &
make the money
you can make
she says care
for your wife
then yourself
winter comes & mom
quits the prison
but keeps the gun
she says she stayed
all those years
because of dad
he starts the fire early
his breath steaming
& legs molting off
mom says these arms
are nothing but
arms to hold you
they say rats dont
squeal leaving
their bodies behind
Failure Body
pry me open like morning night
then drape dead
soil yourself silent
sleep like theres no sun
forget the nerves embedded in flesh
howl like agony is sacred
like a strangers throat snatch back night
strike me again with a diseased smile gaping
your body our body your body embodies
failure reeks surprise your body hums
tune in for the finale your body a cliff hanger
seashore me a desert island grow us a death again
forget that your body is a harmony of prayer
scream down the sacredness of agony
drape dead soil yourself silent sleep
pry me open like a stranger
sunrise howls & reeks warmth
fills the sky again diseased
strike yourself smiling
forget my slacked skin gathers flesh
surprise your nerves
hum deserted
an island
is my body only yours tell me what happens now
Nicholas Brown is a first-generation Mexican American poet. His poetry appears, or is forthcoming, in Superstition Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, DIALOGIST, New Delta Review, and elsewhere. He is a reader for Frontier Poetry and more of his work can be found at nickbrownweekly.com.