There is a retching ache within me

a split seam cave where the birds

have started to nest.

A hangman’s gallows for the bats to cling

and escape into the night,

Screeching simps to the utter black.

I hear the wind whistle through,

Like a werewolf’s howl

exiting its own silver bullet wound.

Increments of space that maroon me

with lagoon level creatures.

Blacker than highway ice

where the reaper prefers you drive.

I am counting the crosses

up the interstate. The flowers

and faded pinwheels, turning.

Counting those who couldn’t

master the art of slowing down,

be they the victims

or the victims of.

It’s things like this

that make me recognize

I have been ripped wide open,

but not ripped away.

Though each breath may hurt,

I am not yet without it.

The rips and tears

can be sewn and mended.

It is okay

to reach into that pocket,

That devoid space within

and hold my heart in my hand.

Tonight, I was brave enough

to peer through the hole

in which I have been cloaked

and served myself some grace.

I started by looking

my speedometer in the face

and slowly letting

my foot off the gas,

removing my hat

for the dead.

---

Nicholas Grooms is a poet, writer and musician hailing from Garden City, Kansas. He has appeared in such periodicals as Verse Libre Quarterly, Roi Faineant, Skyline Magazine and Midsummer Dream House, though he is best known for his work creating music for the Kansas City Chiefs organization. Grooms is also a revered sports and entertainment journalist and is author of the book Me, Myself and I Hate You. He currently resides in Austin, TX, forever learning and growing in his favorite role of “proud father.”

instagram: @nicholasgroomsraps