Poem 1
They look back, which they are not supposed to do.
Its unsettling so I go for a walk,
Whichever route I take on any given day always leads me back to the very same dead end.
He says you think too much, Teerak
Love you. you love me?
He strokes my hair for longer than any man before has had the patience to do.
Then just as quickly as he tells me to sleep, he rips open the exact wound I keep on sticking back together with pritt stick.
Part two of poem 1
When I was child if my Grandmother were to see a penny out on the street she would stop to pick it up, spit on it, and then drop it into my pocket for good luck.
During one particular morning run I stopped twice for reasons other than to massage the cramp out of my lower right leg.
The first time I stopped was on passing a dead dog laid stiff on the side of the road. My second stop was on noticing a penny on the floor. I followed my grandmothers ritual and for the rest of that run I no longer thought of the pain in my right leg.
Back inside I took the saliva covered coin out of my pocket.
After peeling an orange and splitting it into segments, I feed some into my own mouth and some into his.
Teerak, you think too much. He says.
I feed us both again.
