By Aaron Scobie
Between the stalks, I see my son,
aging and wet with rain.
He’s losing himself.
Insects crawl inside his head,
stabbing the backs of his eyes.
He crucifies himself on roots.
Strung up, a rope around his neck
and hands, more roots, pulling back his hair.
His tongue is exposed:
humid and full—bugs flock. He mumbles
There’s ash inside his mouth.
Soon, I will wake alone in bed
and hear bird calls.
Aaron Scobie (he/they) is from lower Alabama and writes about his childhood in Omaha, Nebraska. They have poetry published in Olney Magazine and Free State Review and reviews covering all topics in various other journals. Currently, he manages the online journal Blue River Review and writes poetry chapbook reviews for The Poetry Question.