“Modern Cyphers”

by T Lawrence

instead of writing poems

i text my father

ending every message with a period.

google wouldn’t say how many pixels in a period,

so i create my own.

a pixel of rescinded “i love yous”

three of tv dinners,

two of unpaid insurance

         a couple pixels screaming his

words in my

                     voice.

instead of writing a poem i cast a spell

on that period, let it say all the

things i can’t.

it translates to “my love for you

was closed on sundays to rest, until it went bankrupt

and i realized that loving you was a dead-end job.”

it translates to “i didn’t kiss anyone but you

until i was seventeen

                     and even then

                                             she made me think of you.”

it translates to “i eat cheese

         as an act of defiance now.”

it can be read as a good, strong,

kick in the nuts.

it can be read as “forgiveness is fake and i will

never forget a thing you said to me, it is mortar and i am bricks and yet

i think i’ll dye it pink and make it my own somehow.”

it is a pin sticking me into

         a wall, sticking my body

         upright, sticking me to all

the things which supplement the spine.

you shoplifted that night

                             [all those nights]

you carved off little bits of me, first fingers and

hymen and then

tolerance for lactose and a

         belief in heaven and

                                 hunger and

                                             misunderstanding of 35mm.