every time i step on
a twig it becomes a rib,
three of father's all broken
back into beat. his catacomb
chest a thunder cloud
in the ceiling of a dark 
apartment. a pile 
on the floor. in the packs
of deli ham in the fridge:
the layers of his skin.
what was a dead body
buzzing 90s rock in his
ears, pouring out 
on the floor. a blood jar.
a beer bottle bone 
flowing brown into 
the carpet. the tubes,
the plastic veins.
a body becoming a project.
all the kielbasa 
on potato rolls,
an ambulance summation.
the wheel barrow
in the yard pounding
at the back door
to get in. ziploc 
lung & inhale. 
all the gnats 
on bananas in 
the kitchen. 
what can we use, 
for ribs?
para-promise 
a medical word for for 
the fear of
the flashing lights 
coming to take.