Disorders of Personality
However it happened it had to
on Candlemas, when candles lit
the glass all down the night avenue
where I for so long dissolving sought
a passport photo sort of identity to becalm
the sense of drift over fist, some alarm;
the booth cracked to take my image in.
Spit out fluency of selfhood, when swallowing
purification of the mother. Christ, a child
bled for ceremony so soon after Christmas.
A wick’s spatter approximates bloodletting.
All good is done despite what else we do.
To calorie count the evil, you’re over
your daily limit: as each knows truly
in their bed and when passing a hand through
the gap in his chest: the air huffing in over out.
- new poem by Todd Swift