Steven Dunn

HOME IS WHERE

I peek from the slit
between my forearms.
Them. They come.
Eyes in all the heads glow. 
The flow
melts my arm flesh
Burgundy vessels drip
from bone.

The graveyard this time of year is nice. Damp orange yellow red leaves pile at the headstones for pillows. Place my head in leaves. Soil moist and black like chocolate cake and taste like worms. Arms spread legs spread wind crawls up my pants leg to pocket soft backs of knees. Slightly arched back anchors shoulders to my throat, jaw, head. Eyes fixed to the blue grey. Meanwhile. An old deer limps over, sits like a dog, licks my shoes.

TELL YOU A STORY

Grandad is shuffling his cards at the kitchen table. Counting money. Shuffling more. Come here for a sec, he says to me. Lemme tell you a story. I sit next to him. What do you want, he says. You said you wanted to tell me a story, I say. Nope, he says, I said I wanted to tell You a story. Is your name You. No, I say. He busts out laughing. I been lookin for that muthafucka all my goddamn life, he says, if you ever find You, let me know.

GIL SCOTT HERON

I am digging through my uncle’s closet to find clothes. I like his seventies clothes, he doesn’t wear them. I find a dark brown leather jacket, reversible, light brown suede on the other side. In the back of the closet underneath folded bell-bottoms are two milk crates filled with records. I pull one out. On it is only a man’s head with an afro, 1971, Pieces of a Man. What is a piece of a man. I put it on the record player and the deep voice starts a poem about a revolution that will not be televised. I’ve heard my uncles say this a lot. I let it play while I dig for more clothes.