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