I Used to be Motivated by Love

When I throw a frisbee

made from what I think my conscience is made —

red dirt, tree bark that knew my heart before I did,

the caterpillar who learned how to fly off rage

and rusty metal

left behind by those that learned

how to steal wings from

corvids that had to earn theirs the hard way,

the piece of fabric your least favorite parent

told you not to pull at

with bad intentions,

and the heartbeat

attached to the face

my son will never know

I catch it with my teeth.

And spit my enamel in the direction

the wind blows the hardest against me.

I let the pulp crush the flies, mosquitos,

and creatures that devour

plastic amens that take residence in the roots

of my gums borrowed space

on my tongue that shelters the intrusive moments

where vocal violence is always

froggier than my ambitions.

I flashback to when I was blessed enough

to not know that I was blessed,

but burdened enough to taste

salt and vinegar

through strangers' unearned hatred of me,

and smile,

because every house I have built

on their dirt

has never been the fault of my borrowed hands.

Durell Carter is a writer and a teacher that lives in Oklahoma. He recently graduated from the University of Central Oklahoma with a graduate degree in English. He has work published by The Lickety-Split, From Whispers to Roars, Drunk Monkeys, Petrichor Journal, and others. Durellcarter.org