Poet's Desk: tic

Dara Swan

Dara Swan

Dara Swan

it was like sun burn,

his cheeks ( and mine

like i sat on the stove ( butt

touched gracefully by the edge

of a finger i think it was but

the first time has yet to come / and i / have yet “ “

(fuck the slashes i do that for poet / tic)

the first time i wont tell him it is

the first time because i want it to be bad

in the good way where neither of us

thinks / the picture of virgin mary holding

jesus in my grandmother’s bathroom (this

jesus is Black) mocks me, seems to laugh

as i take a nervous shit and everyone else

is at the dinner table talking and it’s easy

for some girls, they go home, fuck,

i don’t know what it means

when my muscles twitch but my therapist

says its anxiety my pediatrician says

it’s a tic / tic / heretics / tic / would tear down

the walls of this place, where jesus haunts

the rooms, and i would too ( because of the way

it would sound, the paint crunching,

the frame of the virgin mary pain-

ting in shiny pieces on the hardwood

floor that i used to crawl on and the table

too / broken / that i used to sit under

and listen to everyone talking and

laughing and i ( not saying a word.