written By
my father is an overgrown jungle.
which is to say, his flowers are
tangled in the vines. he is a creeper on dampened acres, underpinned by
vestments of blackened earth, and stiffening snow. a feral cornucopia,
unmaimed by the jaws of pruning
shears. he’s a quicksand swamp,
entrapping me in the mire of tailspin malfunctions.
