from The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats by Mike Giardina

An upwards slanted walk

This is my story house, the remains of a Cinderella story,
where the Lincoln Plaza jazz kicked up and out the window
and I woke bleeding in the blackout autumn sprinklers.

So, I’m a little defensive in the oven.
I’ve simmered tender long enough.

I’ve earned the right to edit the light wind angles of prose
into my first edition’s slippery legs.
She became my pharmakon fairy,
my suspended lace.

The White Knights died that night
for all the rights…
…and I should have left.

But our child was blanket smothered for
an unsolicited six months,
so I released in dynamite and
prayed in this pre-oven basket
of roasted lamb, calamari,
and many empty, empty greys.