Logjam, dried toast. My throat is a dinosaur. My thoughts claw into the night’s back and pause to watch the morning slide into place, a ship into home harbor, its workers with unknown intentions and their wet faces falling down from the deck, scurrying into storm drains, pooling what fuels the city and collecting what bends the dam. Liver– what liver? I ate dog last night to keep my insides company. I threw ketchup at the floor and laughed at the splatter. Do you want to talk? I’ll bring cheese if you bring bread. We’ll share the wine. We’ll press our heads against one another. We’ll share the knowledge of what we both know is true — that what we haven’t talked about is coming, that skeletons, in general, support only so much weight
in open fields.
Aiden Lion Lund writes to explore both the conscious and the subconscious. He’s written to the poet Peter Richards as Ynnhoj Deeselppa, and Peter’s written to Aiden as Luap Naynub.