Going to Winter Jam with My Fellowship Group Who Only Befriend Their Pasts & Everyone in Them

I press my spine into back porch, snow-snakes
spindling on dry avenue, a windscape. I try
to lock the door behind me to a house that is not mine.
Within there’s the stale mingling of fuck & cheap
light linen & friends I don’t want anymore. I cop out
the shakes until one,
where they all exit tailoring a stream of hugs & love & God blesses.
I tell them I went to a show over the winter in town
where kids bore the heavy mauve of knuckle & mosh
on their skin. They just go to their arena worship concert.
I stare at single tiles long enough that the vapid scuffs
look like rain swung by wiper blades. They praise air & light
the way I fight the air. Maybe my parents hate-fucking is
the only resurrection of myself I’ll ever know.
I’m trying to find joy without my cardinal senses,
& not taste words or & hear the tingle of jugdment
over my shoulder.