Screwing with Flight-NaPoWriMo-Day 11

The screw driven through
the skin of memorabilia nailed
on the wall of a Denver condo,
with the fireplace an avocado
shade, sickly olive drab reflected
in my face, reminds me of sin
again. This time it’s the way I
think about pushing the nail
deep into my palm until it leaves
a piercing silence from the inside
out. Sometimes I think about

the screw as a metaphor for the
way I’d like to be screwed by
someone, held into place like
that, the frame swinging, the
bolts gashes lining the side
of my ribs until the metal
keeps me grounded, or more

accurately, is just a better metaphor
for the reality of it all, the insertion
of metal plates and screws inside my
body after I broke
my fall from skiing,
a different kind of flight.

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