by Joseph Lambert
My uncle doesn’t own a body anymore.
He lost it in the syringe next to his children.
I remember
when he fell
against the fence
because his insulin
was too low and I didn’t know
what to say.
His face was hollow
like just before
the first time I dove
into the deep end of a swimming pool.
He cradled into the fence,
thick mucous snailed
out the corners of his mouth,
and he spoke in moans,
in some coded language
only the comatose speak.
Now, he sleeps
at my parents’ house
waiting for three o’clock to tap him
on the shoulder
and remind him
that Kayla still isn’t old enough
to ride the bus
and that orange juice and strawberry pop-tarts aren’t
new eyes and new feet and new hands
that touch her blond hair
and kick the ball back in June
on her birthday
after chocolate cake,
and candles with tiny flames that refuse
to stop breathing.
Joseph Lambert wishes global military conflicts were settled with some dignity.
