my bile winter

I.

shoveled forth the froth from the ice

orange and black like bagged dried bean soup

stuck inside the plastic bag

blend hopelessly desegregated

were layers of this yellow egg bile

sediment of my leftover mouth

smoked hapless shoveled for my father

not built a bridge but a brunt badge

laid up under my drawn neck

were bubbled that ice

that formed never a swan

but swine

II.

“Shit, clean up your vomit!”

“I will”

“Get a shovel, your gonna need it”

“Yes it’s been a long winter and there’s piles of it out there”

door closes.

III.

a man never felt so tame

and timid as to pick up

these laments of my son

the cold winter frost

left porous the pile

but duty knows

what duty i have

of the family

of the health

of the heart

none so porous and vulnerable

as this pile

of laments

of my son