In the Winter of My Inaugural Anxiety
BY MARCUS WICKER
January 20, 2017
inside the molehill inside the mind
where a single wedge issue echoes like a pair
of blown house speakers pissing air & sad boy
flatulence the long-cluttered living room precipitates
a bitter uncoupling. Evening grief accumulates sleets
headstones monuments fleeces an iridescent boneyard over
the closest cemetery fashions secondary coffins bone-
white around distended mounds age-old injuries rehomed
by light of bedside microscope. When I let the idyllic quiet
thistle—when a boorish hiccup engulfs me, Jonah-like—
when all I can think about is all I hold dear, what I deserve
to hold, & whether I am worthy of being held, I think of
my country’s undying dispute: Who crossed whose boundaries
imposing relief? Who’s snowing who? It wasn’t me. It’s only me.
