All My Oms

My plane playing in the


sliding above the runway like repelling magnets,

flaring for a greasy-good landing.


Ripping a ceiling out,

charred and soggy, biceps burning,

after fire devoured it

like a kerosene-covered match.


Wrapping my arms around my Marine after

nine months, void and ache replaced with

anxious kisses.


Toes and fingertips hugging

leathery, raspy skin

of a balance beam,

sticking the last routine

senior year,

chalk clouds stain my streaked face.


My guitar ringing out

a harp in the halls of my aorta,

hands finally strong enough

fingers finally calloused enough

to hold an F chord.


Under the oak tree,

wincing through light at

the longest branch

sans tire swing, now

blackbirds drown out the roaring wind.



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