The body collects countless cruelties.
Regrets nest in each forehead crease,
while every heartache slits its imprint
just below the wrist. Even after midnight,
troubles upset the peace within my stomach.
Broke down and blown through,
I dream of a history of anonymity,
its precision: me, my father’s sole progeny,
and my achievements, all worthless as cold coffee
or rain-soaked cigarettes. Surely we all struggle
with the misnomer of identity, or a knot in the rope
of our errant epiphanies. Even now, anger
simmers in my sternum, while apprehension swims
through blood streams, the heart’s gates and locks.
My confidence still unravels at the slightest pull.
~ ~ Adrian S. Potter
Published in Foliate Oak Literary Journal (April, 2009).