VIGIL
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@lukecohoon
VIGIL

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DIVINITY FOR DIGGING
DIGGING FOR DIVINITY
petrified

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yesterday, I took out every saucepan, mug, ladle, whisk, polished and sharpened every knife in the drawer. lined them up like soldiers. put them away. the war is happening every day until it isn’t. i won’t say a single thing about holiness, even poets need to rest. who will join me in the kitchen and eat? i sit at the breakfast bar, a single clementine in the fruit bowl. even today, I hear the knives in the kitchen drawer rattling together like teeth.. i take the sewing scissors and bury them in the backyard. living is so complicated until I see the insides of your wrists. am I the soldier now? marooned at sea? a martyr aflame? sorry, sorry; i promised not to speak to divinity. god, this isn’t even my house to invite ghosts into but at least the cutlery is clean.
twelve
WALK BY NIGHT
whatever spirits we created here are gone; the light is spilling through all the bullet holes in the walls. the arsonist reconsidered but my body still feels like it’s been doused in gasoline. i might not be a hollowed, smoking building but i could be burning. something small and campfire where people gather to tell ghost stories. the suburbs can’t hold us anymore so we escape to the forest where all the trees have eyes. i don’t flinch when they see me anymore; the life I led before strangled all the fear out of me. instead, i am full to the brim with blood and venom and venom. let them find me, let them try and wrestle the secrets from this skin. love isn’t here anymore but i’m no longer left starving for it; grasping hands in the dark aren’t the same nourishment anymore. they told me i was good for nothing but isn’t dying an art? i come back every day and that used to be considered the holiest of talents.
so let’s call this escape a benediction. let’s say I never got rid of all the ghosts, I became one. because what’s a ghost if not an act of revenge?
VIGNETTES WHERE I PLAY MYSELF
i. something under the floorboards doesn’t want to stay buried: you told him you never felt holier than when you were under his arching body. there were never any gods to be worshipped there, nothing religious about what you did to each other. you can break your teeth on love again and again but don’t pretend that the result was stigmata. “I would kill you if any part of you were still alive.”
ii. something nauseating about nostalgia. maybe the dead should stay there. after what happened to me, I can’t drink lemonade without thinking what was hidden inside. every summer my mother makes a pitcher that tastes like carpet burns on my knees, incisors at my throat, how tempting the edge of the balcony looked. iii. I wanted to call this poem a lesson in levitation. teach everyone how to float above those picket fences hiding pets buried in the garden, baby teeth wrapped in lace, tarot cards reading the same warning over and over.
iv. can’t be all bad; what was the name of the song we sung? something beginning with forgiveness or maybe thank god we’re still here. because we wake the ghosts to remind us what haunts us, remind me not every ghostly childhood is lonely. he never meant i love you the way I did. what happened to him? killed him, turned his body into poetry lines. thank god he was good for something. v. history taught me a lesson in survival:
one hand to hold the knife and one to stop the blood.

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fragment number one
two boys are holding two straws between one chocolate milkshake, they hold hands under the sticky tabletop, only golden light is allowed in this room. just because they’re not in love doesn’t mean everything was terrible. even broken things leave a trace. a shadow of where the good things fell / every poet writes about cigarettes, blood, whiskey. maybe because they’re also too close to the things that destroy them. there wasn’t much left of them after, but what remained will have to do / sun spills into the room, the armor you left on the floor glitters, in the morning someone trips over it, desperate / you wanted to protect yourself, sharpened your heart to the point where it could draw blood / wait for me, i’m coming with you
WHAT DO ANGELS THINK OF YOU NOW?
call it a brave act when you wake up in the morning: today you wake up with no dirt under your fingernails and no splinters in your palms: there was never a right way to bury all of these bones but – today - thankfully, you don’t need to worry about how deep that grave needs to be. today, every crime you committed doesn’t follow you, today, every bruised knuckle, every cigarette burn, every poem you wrote on your arms in everything but ink
has time to recover.
cradle these days in your clean palms until you can give them back to the sky. thankfully, today, you can wake up. today, you can ask does the light hurt? and, today, darling, of course it does but that doesn’t mean you never needed it.
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ANGELS NOW?
that night, he drew you a bath and lit all the candles, touched all of your scars like holy scripture. he washes your hair; the water is no longer running red. everything in this room is golden and smells like lavender. even orpheus couldn’t sing you to sleep here. if we go, we go together. is this how this poet loves, gorging himself on love whenever he can? pretending angels? soft & gentle, feathers being plucked like leaving miracles. you had to ruin your shoulder blades raw to grab all those bloody offerings, but god wasn’t it worth it, to leave behind something that shines in the dark? that leads people home, that leads people. I want to kiss you, he says, and you hand him another wounded part of you.
see, that wasn’t too bad, was it?
untitled
it’s summer and you’re ravenous: you split yourself stupid open on the concrete, leaking something everyone could smell from three streets away. this is not a dream you can wake up from, not a dream you can say goodbye to. this is now your life. your mouth tastes like a butcher’s floor. you didn’t throw up your hands to stop yourself from falling and god knows it wasn’t the first time you’ve done something like this. wrapping yourself in bandages and it not being a Halloween costume. entering the emergency room for the third time in a month and joking that it feels like home. here’s the thing; home can’t always be a person, can’t always be a place, home is just your body and aren’t you tired of leaving the door wide open? letting people let themselves in and never leaving – trailing their dirty feet along your floors, leaving leftovers to rot, hanging up their bloody coats on your walls?
if this isn’t a dream you shouldn’t still be flying – if this isn’t a dream, the fall should wake you up.
VOLUME IV
does it matter how I came back? the important thing is that I did. no table is complete without a funeral wreath, mother is still in the kitchen polishing silverware. she’s been there for days, now; her hands are covered in blood. father is outside in the garden, planting something that used to breathe; his shovel never looked so dirty. he’s also covered in blood but none of it is. look, i told you - it doesn’t matter how I came back. some dead things simply don’t want to stay buried. would you have noticed if I told you the sky was empty? would it have mattered? my love; he dulled all the blades for me. gently took my wrists like they weren’t connected to something that wants to kill me.
nobody ever wants to be a martyr, but have you tried escaping godliness?

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VOLUME III
nothing makes sense / keep getting the same text messages / an angry god who doesn’t want to be forgotten / you up? / I never wanted this to be a song listened to on dark nights / when the moon is as full as his hands used to be / a fist full of hair / a song for transforming feral / wait for me, I’m coming / big bad wolf in his father’s jacket / this is a portrait in brutality / a lesson told to children / bury your heart where predators will not find it / you up? / imagine being burned at the stake / drowned in a lake / you up? wait for me, I’m coming / the moon waxing and waning / rivers of blood / a clearing in the woods / when he asks me / I don’t tell him / that his divinity belongs to me now
MERCY & TENDER
became something that hunts; when I catch an angel they burst into flame. so I save their ash under my tongue. let me unravel the bones into a story I can understand, teach me how not to run from the light. tell me we can be more than this, tell me the truth. the next one doesn’t burn - a thousand eyes! – and did I turn martyr or prophet? either way, it was the first time my blood meant anything divine.