Autopsy (Button Poetry) by Donte Collins (2017)
Autopsy (Button Poetry) by Donte Collins (2017)
If you aren’t able to describe it, you will not be able to survive it.
- JAMES BALDWIN, THE CROSS OF REDEMPTION: UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS
Don’t Tell Your Uber Driver You’re Going to an Orgy (excerpt)
grief is not yet a garden of thorns blooming
in your chest
& grief is not yet a question you’ve answered with sex
The Orphan Performs an Autopsy on the Garden
there are many ways to pull a weed
but only one will keep the garden
clean come the end of summer
your mother will be dead
13 years - 2 months - 11 days - 7 hours from now
& you curse her beneath your breath. flick beaded sweat gathered
like pearls at the crease of your brow & continue to rip up the earth
why does heat make the body confess what it will not do otherwise?
drunk on july & nerve you rip handfuls of color from along the fence
thorns like brief alarms warning your fevered temper of what blood
will soon stain your teeth. never. ruin. your. mother’s. new. plants
your mother will be dead
3 years - 6 months - 9 hours from now
& a man, not your father, calls you baby. calls the house phone past
midnight. waits, like warm fog, outside your bedroom window, wants
to use your mouth to raise his children. why does heat make the body
confess what it will not do otherwise?
sneaking out of a house built of creaking wood can only end with
red smeared across checkered linoleum. can only cause a mother to
lock the doors from the outside. deadbolt & don’t disrespect my house
again! basement stairs & belt buckle branded-a birthmark across
your sprouting back. see me: a field of dry & rebellious wheat thrashing
until flaming. until ash
your mother will be dead
3 days - 6 hours - 14 minutes from now
& wants to take you to lunch. insists on giving you all your old inhalers,
face-cream, old shoes. says you never know. says if i died i wouldn’t
know what to do with all of this-points-the china cabinet, a small
museum of memories. says we laughed a lot, too. our faces framed &
frozen to happy. says if you & lamar don’t know i love you, know now
& now she is weeping. see her: a black sky cracking, offering water: as
if to say: forgiveness is a fertile thing-is what makes tomorrow grow
& / just / like / that / she’s / dead / a / porch / light / gone / out / a
wind / chime / songless / sunken / into / soil / you / untethered / 19
returning / to / an / empty / home / find / your / hands / busy / in
an / abandoned / garden / joy / must / be / a / flower / among / all
of / this / knotted / agony / there / are / many / ways / to / pull / grief
from / the / body / but / only / one / will / keep / the / boy / alive
Five Stages of Grief (excerpt)
confession: the want to die is not always the want not to live, but sometimes
the want to live somewhere softer. where the tall grass lulls my body to sleep
where everything promises to stay alive
If you aren’t able to describe it, you will not be able to survive it.
- JAMES BALDWIN, THE CROSS OF REDEMPTION: UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS
Don’t Tell Your Uber Driver You’re Going to an Orgy (excerpt)
grief is not yet a garden of thorns blooming
in your chest
& grief is not yet a question you’ve answered with sex
The Orphan Performs an Autopsy on the Garden
there are many ways to pull a weed
but only one will keep the garden
clean come the end of summer
your mother will be dead
13 years - 2 months - 11 days - 7 hours from now
& you curse her beneath your breath. flick beaded sweat gathered
like pearls at the crease of your brow & continue to rip up the earth
why does heat make the body confess what it will not do otherwise?
drunk on july & nerve you rip handfuls of color from along the fence
thorns like brief alarms warning your fevered temper of what blood
will soon stain your teeth. never. ruin. your. mother’s. new. plants
your mother will be dead
3 years - 6 months - 9 hours from now
& a man, not your father, calls you baby. calls the house phone past
midnight. waits, like warm fog, outside your bedroom window, wants
to use your mouth to raise his children. why does heat make the body
confess what it will not do otherwise?
sneaking out of a house built of creaking wood can only end with
red smeared across checkered linoleum. can only cause a mother to
lock the doors from the outside. deadbolt & don’t disrespect my house
again! basement stairs & belt buckle branded-a birthmark across
your sprouting back. see me: a field of dry & rebellious wheat thrashing
until flaming. until ash
your mother will be dead
3 days - 6 hours - 14 minutes from now
& wants to take you to lunch. insists on giving you all your old inhalers,
face-cream, old shoes. says you never know. says if i died i wouldn’t
know what to do with all of this-points-the china cabinet, a small
museum of memories. says we laughed a lot, too. our faces framed &
frozen to happy. says if you & lamar don’t know i love you, know now
& now she is weeping. see her: a black sky cracking, offering water: as
if to say: forgiveness is a fertile thing-is what makes tomorrow grow
& / just / like / that / she’s / dead / a / porch / light / gone / out / a
wind / chime / songless / sunken / into / soil / you / untethered / 19
returning / to / an / empty / home / find / your / hands / busy / in
an / abandoned / garden / joy / must / be / a / flower / among / all
of / this / knotted / agony / there / are / many / ways / to / pull / grief
from / the / body / but / only / one / will / keep / the / boy / alive
Five Stages of Grief (excerpt)
confession: the want to die is not always the want not to live, but sometimes
the want to live somewhere softer. where the tall grass lulls my body to sleep
where everything promises to stay alive