by Jason Walker
The parents
nap
on a water-
bed. We plot
to pop
it with forks.
Clapped out of
the shack by
their red wine
hands, forced to
stop spending
tokens
on the arcades
of our minds, we
drift into
the drab, dry
days. We walk
into walls
for fun, spill
soap on floors
that don’t need
to be cleaned. Get
used to it,
used to it,
used to it.
After church,
we snatch a wreath
from the door
and play disc
golf. Don’t eat
pinecones.
Don’t scratch
your teeth
with knives.
We get popped—
our classy
brains become
radiators.
Leaning against
a snapped lime tree,
we lick
the pulp of its
landmines. We plot
a new plot.
Jason Walker is a graduate student at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, where he interns for Birmingham Poetry Review. He recently was a reader for poemmemoirstory.
Hawaii Pacific Review 