a woman i disastrously dated years ago might send me garlic and i might still feel the familiar lick of fluttering flame

the sky has not yet begun
its bruising; every morning 
a new opportunity, another 
chorus of reverent mourning. 
soon i will layer my body and 
foist it into the glisten of 
coastal rainforest November. 
i will drive a short while 
to a home perched on the edge
of a berried bay, sailboats 
tied to a moaning dock. 
i will move thousands 
of pounds of gravel, 
two buckets at a time, 
walking many miles as i skim 
trails i months ago built, 
with a fresh layer of
tread. we are encouraged
to believe, in this society, and 
perhaps especially so as men, that 
what we earn, our job, that
is our value: my value
is rubble, and a frozen crust
atop a gravel pile. 
my value is a barking 
back. my value is the demands
of poverty, cold hands 
in a dark wood, an ocean 
of oxygen, a forest of 
trees gently accepting of my
exhalations, and silently 
breathing back.


Ivan Lackovic-Croata: Untitled (Village in Winter)

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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