Origin Story
Thomas Mixon
The burst your birth adorns the room
with, photo flashes, vernix filmed
across your limbs, the lochia
a trail we’re told we needn’t look
behind us as we leave, to see
if anyone wipes up the sheen.
The lack of sleep a cracked carafe
I brew the whole beans in, but leak
more liquid than the energy
it takes to clean the spill is worth.
The weight of the hope of your chin
on my rib cage, my head below
the bed, searching for funny balls
you throw like asking would it kill
me to believe the way you do,
that I’ll always find whatever
stupid shit you, purposefully,
without regret or conscience, lose?
Thomas Mixon has poetry and fiction in Grim & Gilded, The Curator, Rogue Agent, The Broadkill Review, and elsewhere.