Petite poesie en prose
Brien Dawson

I want to challenge the cost of carelessness, send away sordid sentiment of anniversaries,
and calculate the space between sorrow and regret. When I close my eyes and try to walk around the angular coffee table, I think this is how you must have been; your eyes closed,
your legs slowly spreading, room smelling of sterilized instruments and cotton. How did you lie there?

My thoughts are maps now. I scan each continent of my mind, looking for forgiveness;
I am absent minded, I get side tracked somewhere around Antarctica, I slip into the mathematics of memories, the geometry of bodies, the algebra of longing, all subjects I always failed in school.

I scrape my shin, slowly dragging the skin against the glass, deeper and deeper; still I keep my eyes closed. I have a mission to trade shoes with you and I envision the doctor,
her warm latex hands and her exactness her soporific voice.

She is telling me to relax.
She is telling me to relax.

Brien Dawson was Crazy Horse in another life. He believes that feminism is destined to fail unless we re-define ‘masculinity’ and re-think the way we socialize young men.