Here's the opening to a poem, inspired partly by a conversation with Mark Halliday about "wince moments"--those times in our life that we cringe when we look back upon them.
The Expurgated Catalogue of Winces
I sing you, finger of the untimely
boner standing at attention,
volunteering to answer
a problem at the chalkboard
the spot of blood blooming
in white underwear. Something
said when the show was over
but the mic was still on—
A scission. What you said to impress
in back of Nate’s Mom’s
station wagon about what Chris said
he did with Heather in the woods.
pp. 5, 7, 14, 67
Each moment you’ve failed to hold
your bowels, eager to blurt their daily
gossip. Each snot revealing itself,
a rabbit in a magician’s hat.
...For the full text, go here, to La Fovea: