You recovered from those formative
and dumb years: now here’s to many more.
Your soul that rends and mends all grassroots and
punk gives you nary a dull moment, except
when you feel dead; but sweet hubris might say
it’s all in your head. Now count the few ways you
love yourself: sports, poems, and sex. Only two
can actually kill you, so relax: you
concern yourself so much with death that birth
means less and less. Remember: dad saw ghosts,
your mom’s, and told you he felt blessed. When
you meet your other brother, maker, or
see the damned wraiths yourself, own up: you’ve
probably relapsed. Or just regressed.
Tyler Wettig resides in Michigan. His latest chapbook is The Adult Table (Zetataurus, 2018). Tyler's website: https://www.tylerwettig.