In Which the Tick's Head isn't Removed Along with the Body
smoke sour and singed crawls from my lips.
too deep I did go, now I’ve lost my wit.
In a graveyard of ticks, I’ve dug my own bed.
They drain me alive, then leave me with heads.
Detached from the corpse as I pull the bug free,
Teeth dug so deep I’m surprised they don’t sing.
“Don’t miss the ends,” my dad told me ago;
But Jesus Christ, please, they’re all that I know.
Angry, abandoned, and one last screw you,
To a healing new soul, and a good person too.
It left me with chores and a scar and a plea,
That maybe, next time, I’ll be left with a flea.
Copyright © Jordan Hoffman | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment