THE HANGED ONE

raised by a family
of thieves, klepto-
maniacs, a closeted
gay
the chronically
ill
I can fall in love with a subway car if you are
peeling an orange—
you lovingly stole—
into it.
I may even / unmask / for a taste.

I know I outed my dad in this poem.

I know of another who
disappears himself
before ICE can

by his logic / we will never meet

but because I love this man & must
be a brat with him—I
turn to the cards & The Hanged One
flies out to say—look closely
at this sad boi pattern
of peeling oranges at 3AM for these
failed-by-them
ghosts,
use both hands, as above,
‍ ‍ so below—
& enter his dream to tell him:

we will meet at your local bar in 2026
who is bringing
the blood
oranges? who is bringing
the blood?