Felix Da Costa Gomez

Like the Bow River, flowing North to South,
empty whiskey bottles fall from North to South in
an explosion of broken glass and blanket lies.
Whiskey flows and burns the throat, everything flows.
Flowing is the root of it, the singular truth.

I used to think that being alone
was unbearable,
but now that I’ve pushed almost
every single person I’ve ever held dear
away from me,
I really don’t think it’s that bad

I snapped a picture of you the other day when you weren’t looking
capturing the entirety of your face
as you lay oblivious and a victim
incarcerating the elegant flare of
your cheekbones

I went to college like a bird swimming
like a woman burning in the 1700s
or like an atheist rising
I cut my nails like a narcissist killing himself
as if I’m a vampire taking a stake to the heart

He sat himself against a tree, looking out towards one of the natural clearances provided by mother nature and glanced at the trees as his fingers fumbled dents into the sides of the peach can. Pat was careful not to cut himself, cautiously increasing pressure until the top of the can collapsed in on itself in the shape of a dull crater.