Spolia

Like an offering to Reason
I bury your face
inside my brow
and build this new closed room
from the spolia of we;
the memory on your motorcycle
and the quiet crimes that weave the family
where there are no grave sites
and everything that's dead is gone
and what's unknown is deadly.

Born a bastard, this is my birthright,
to inherite each abandonment. To build
from broken pasts.

What is it about
blood that we love so much?



by jerry gordon