Best Poem of Ian Ayres

Silver Screams
Are chill on exposed skin. Gender rage. A world
Flattened by circular thinking. Tried to remember
What nothingness got in the way. The ‘the’ of it.
All wholesome with a hole. “Deceased Lover, ”
Is asked, “What’s it like to be dead? ” Never living
Long enough to know beyond agony popcorn

& movies—“But t . . .
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The Masseuse's Son
His mom’s client hurried naked from her room
Aroused, proof she’d been doing more than massage
Or massaging more than backs as if to confront
All the petty people brought up by petty people
Who believe what they believe without questioning
The night a nine-year-old boy was shoved into a pool
Of his mother’s blood . . .
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