could it be this
that the meat of the poem
the sinews that bind the stanzas
the bones that keep the form intact
are only of interest because
the paper i come wrapped in
is itself so curiously ambivalent
that it begs to be peeled away?
eighty-seven years
in an effort to convince his parents
that a move to idaho was the best possible thing
their son said, in all seriousness, that it had been
eighty-seven years since the last time
one human ripped the life from another
in madison county
when they told me that, i wondered, so
fool that i am, as soon as i was home
i went to google and found that in 2012
there had been a grizzly
murder-suicide
the details of which
i chose not to explore
just as i have ignored every suggestion
that i needed to move
to yet another place called
"god's country"
newman's own
organic cinnamon mints
tiger on the tin and *HOT*
in old-timey lettering
wrapper off and the tiger pounces
roars the scent of school days
back of the bus with a bottle
of cinnamon oil and toothpicks
soaked for days, made for dares
how many could you handle
at a time without choking
without coughing, without crying
winner gets another bottle
loses his taste buds for a week
loser goes home with tongue-blisters
breath that could melt steel
determined that as soon as his mouth
recovers he will take the trophy back
