7
Three poems by lucas galvin
our bones are stained with the worst of it
fucked up kids
have a way of finding each other
we wear our mother’s shame like strands
of inherited pearls around our necks,
our father’s temper trembling in our hands.
the sky is a raw bruise
tinged with light pollution
from too many strip malls
and sprawled out in her
backseat i cannot see a single
star
no one has touched me
without adding lye to
my shallow creeks
and i cannot help
but wonder if the
writhing turns her on
the thrill has long since
faded from knowing
when someone wants
to fuck me
it is the same look
of longing
that reminds me
exactly where i come from
_
Her hand is travelling up my
skirt and I know
she thinks she can
silence the tragedies that
sing in our veins
replenish what was stolen
when our mother’s
backs were turned
but between her thighs
i am a sinner taking