my therapist says
men put things in boxes
they compartmentalize
if that’s true then I truly understand how you—
how a man can
leave lives behind
erase them from the blackboard of memory
in exchange for whiteboards
but some things don't erase
they smear
like mistakes
same mess
new medium
the grass is truly much greener
because the shit is much deeper
but sometimes men get swallowed by the grass because the box they moved to was their last, and nobody ever forgets the past—those lives do come back, spring from boxes buried in soil deep as blood—and those murky corpses’ oily residue stains the present with their footprints
‘til men can’t out-box their feelings
and even if they don’t meditate ‘til their heads become like stone in cement
or if you don't see men tarry over their new grass
it doesn't mean the ghosts don't invade their thoughts like a storm of wasps—sting
their dreams like blitzkrieg—their eternity like a missing being out of joint out
of place out of face
you can see it when they blink and look down to the left
a mask for a disgrace a displacement like wink
a lie swallowed in a smile