Turn

The bitter boy
beneath the bed,
he was born of a thousand shadows.
The raw material of a man, he is
a puppy with raw meat
in his mouth,
a tongue he bites
because his mother tells him to.

Black blood on his teeth,
and on the knuckles
of the fist he scrapes
against the knots
in the floor, and
in his stomach—

in his ears,
guitars scream
the way he wants to
but can’t.
Fingers scrape against strings.
Callouses open
and bleed
like his mother,
who comes
into the room
and brushes two fingers
across his quivering lips,
lips that long to open,
to collude with teeth and tongue.

‘Shush, sugar,’
she tells him.
‘You’ll have your turn
to scream.’