I pack my bag at three and in it I put
my earplugs, my eye mask, my pen, my notebook,
my foot, my face, my friend, my abortion,
the plasters, the walking, the stillness, the way.

And then
the walking, the way,
the tension, the hold, the delay,
the movement, the limit, the stillness,
the walking, the way.

Last night in the storm I kicked places apart, told friends
to leave forever and walked away, they
still calling. Absolute destructor
of the home by the Bons. The kids from that time
with mouths malformed but still pretty. Is it my fault
that whenever I say ‘kick ass‘ I think of you,
my kind of daughter?
That whenever I hear ‘excuse you‘ I think
of you, my kind of daughter?
That whenever I shout ‘no‘ I
think of you, my kind of daughter?
That whenever I see
a pierced tongue I think of you, my kind of daughter?
That whenever
I drive alone towards stone walls I think of you,
my kind of son? That
whenever I walk to Saint Luke‘s Cross I look at abandoned
buildings and think of you, my kind of son?