M. Hank

My grandmother never cut flowers with scissors, raised her nonexistent eyebrows plucked beyond all veins of recognition, blinked one eye fishlike & said a knife was all she needed.

For years people worshiped Nature, she would help bring nutrients and food the the people.

Our eyes set upon wealth—

We count our dollar bills;

our materialistic skills. 

We avert our eyes from health, 

“Aging” backwards, 

We'll march with cardboard signs

rainbow letters pretend

that we're happier than we are 

because we understand

the depth of this hole we've dug ourselves

into

the fire we've fed 

I hold my prefrontal cortex with the shame of

sinking, water lilies seeping from my lips into the grey-green

marsh I call (uselessly) 

home.

My mind hisses with the strain of too many canned-up voices

saying

…