Death, Adolescence, the Moon
 

I know how it is to see bones in the mirror
I know how it is to be rotting alive
I am seventeen tonight   the moon a shotgun barrel
over my shoulder   when death slams the screen door  
the floorboards creak   we drive to the game  
fumble under bleachers   while padded bodies collide
my teeth in the dirt   among half-eaten hot dogs
my skinny hands stroking death   through his trousers 
by the edge of the field   I make him a dandelion crown  
he slides his tongue   past my lips   I feel a meadow
in my chest   when I slice it open   termites swarming
like what I consume    then I shovel it out  
then sew myself up               death hid in the thicket
while I undressed   shorts fell to my ankles  
death you were watching   I liked you watching  
you liked my stunted body   like a moving car  
I fall right out of   I’m sleeping even when I’m not
I’m sleeping when I stare at myself in the mirror

 
 

Marty Cain is an MFA candidate at the University of Mississippi, where he edits the Yalobusha Review. His poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in The Journal, Spork Press, HTMLGiant, Rattle, Similar:Peaks::, Moss Trill, and elsewhere.