If I am repaired, can we meet again for the first time, in all of the places I have feared to go, and then, again, in all of the places I will have forgotten, if I am repaired?



Friday, May 4, 2012

Mag 115

They came too late with their promises.
I had already been ruined,
poached relentlessly,
lathered in Breck—the golden formula.
‘You have to keep your eyes closed, honey,’ mother would say,
But what frog’s-ass face upended could dispel Hell’s own brine?

No more tears they promised.
But suds were suds by then,
and you wonder why I flinch, tubside.


  1. Seems like some people are always late with their promises ...

  2. Gold formula Breck...ah memories...and bloodshot eyes...your writing is always a treat Steven...

  3. So glad I came back for one more look at The Mag .. your poem made the journey worth it!

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