emptying town by nick flynn

I want to erase your footprints
from my walls. Each pillow
is thick with your reasons. Omens

fill the sidewalk below my window: a woman
in a party hat, clinging
to a tin-foil balloon. Shadows

creep slowly across the tar, someone yells, “Stop!”
and I close my eyes. I can’t watch

as this town slowly empties, leaving me
strung between bon-voyages, like so many clothes
on a line, the white handkerchief

stuck in my throat. You know the way Jesus

rips open his shirt
to show us his heart, all flaming and thorny,
the way he points to it. I’m afraid

the way I’ll miss you will be this obvious.

I have a friend who everyone warns me
is dangerous, he hides
bloody images of Jesus
around my house, for me to find

when I come home; Jesus
behind the cupboard door, Jesus tucked

into the mirror. He wants to save me
but we disagree from what. My version of hell
is someone ripping open his shirt

and saying, Look what I did for you.

compilation - old.

he says that
he’s afraid
of the scalpel
and the chapel
and those gods
that he’s read about
in the newspaper.
yet, he’s found himself
praying every night
against abandoned
buildings
for the strength to walk
twelve more steps.

twelve steps later,
he’s still the
martyr i’ve spent
every dry night,
begging for.
nights consisting of
bodies clinging to bodies,
searching for anything
more than just
vacuous pinks,
and worthless
speech.
he is a seer
he reads the stars,
and predicts wars.

he’s predicting
the exact time,
location
and condition
of the third
world war
while he traces
future constellations
and rapid
changes
in the earth’s formation
on a lovers back and says
in soft tones,
over shivering bones.
“no survivors,
no survivors”