by Tobin Priest
Asleep in a foreign country,
strange head on my concave breast.
Old houses tumble
around me - good.
As it must be.
Damn
the vapidity of dalliance. greenshoots,
weedchoked: all my life
freely spindles
in grey pubescent waves.
Her scalp is the color of air. Something
happened: no more a child, not yet
a man. flaccid
dweller in tents.
Shriveled grape. Sour wine.
Another daughter with uncalloused hands.
We dash runts on the rocks,
sow fields with the bones -
I cannot sleep in a foreign country. There
is so much to be done.
****
Tobin Priest is a writer from Virginia. His work has appeared in Expat Press, Spectra Poets, and other journals. He can be found on Twitter @tobinpriest.