The Fiddleback

poem by Kirby Wright

Funny how cheeks
Fold in on themselves—
Creased leather

That will soon
Bubble and burn
In Joe’s Crematorium.

Muscles?
I still have muscles.
Sometimes women

Mention my calves
If I wear shorts.
My scent reminds me

Of my old man.
My stink defeats
Tea tree roll-on.

Did my father hate me
For smelling young
I skate razor

Over pockmarked visage
Trying to erase
Salt and Pepper shadow.

Eyes wet, bloodshot.
Puckered lips
Webbed with wrinkles.

Blade nicks throat.
Blood resembles chocolate
Given the chance

To dry.
Smile.
Do a fake smile:

Teeth green
From grinding meat,
Sucking marrow to bone.

——–
Kirby Wright