MATEO PEREZ LARA

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

Photo by Eugene Chystiakov

Ricochet Skulls

I could fill a whole book with the passive aggressive
snarls that went into the pen, the paper, the keyboard
on the screen, where I spit, spilled wine, where I clutched
dignity and ripped it apart.
childish displays firework//ed out of me, turned monstrous—
I tried to wet, cleanse, and pull them
wispy, smokey, tendrilled calm.
I wanted the village of my love cursed
grimaced, eaten whole by vultures
werewolves, mutant men. I wanted
no remains in the fields or in the homes
but there is always a whimpering stubborn
survivor, that finds a weapon to castigate them all.
Purer the dungeon, purer the sickened farm
every nightmare romance I built in my mind
when they said one thing and did another
stuck around in the gas-lit home, was punished
was punisher, was evil last boss to vanquish
was the one doing the vanquishing, was every
damp step-stone, the croak, the jitter
the laughter, the permanent broken pause.