And when I’m touched
(if I’m touched…)
tender
I sense a loss that is beyond what I can fathom
It’s a feeling so distinct from
that which devours my instinct
(an instinct innate to my evil)
My father molded me from bone to sacred bone
(The father labors…)
to sacred, cursed bone
and yet
(Recall his remainder)
The cursed bone speaks of its origin
spits out its name
a fervor
a chant
a reckoning
(You’re logical like your mother)
a prayer
Let me rename these bones
not distinct from my father
nor for him
but because of him
(Alive in my marrow)
Let me be who I am
right now
a sacred, cursed
son.
Morgan Gibby is a junior majoring in English at Kennesaw State University. Aside from her academic interests, she enjoys feeding stray cats and taking excessively long naps. Her favorite book is “Carmilla” by Sheridan Le Fanu and she will talk about it for hours to anyone brave enough to listen.