Justice Oliver Boyd Poetry: November 2024

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3rd draft on 1/22/25

After he asked me to go

and get the hammer

the bolt in my stomach became loose

and the nut clumsily snaked its way

through the labyrinth of my intestines

meandering back and forth

and I knew I would not be able to find it

as I fell apart inside.

Whether in light or dark

chaos or order

I would not be able to find it

or any other tool he asked me to find.

I was a goner from the start.

It was always some place dimly lit

never enough light

to clearly make out the forms

of a hammer or a screw driver

mixed in among the mixed up

puzzle pieces of the work bench

all the tools bleeding into one another

until my vision was a blur

of metal, rust, wood, and the scent

of shame which was always metallic-oil-old-saw-dust.

I would return empty handed

again and again

and all the bolts and all the nuts

and all the washers, all loose in my gut,

and I would think How am I still together?

And upon my return

he would retrieve these pieces out of me

over time with his voice

and his rusty fingers

oxidizing in me to this day.

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2nd Draft on 11/24/24

After he asked me to go

and get the hammer

the bolt in my stomach became loose

and the nut snaked its way

through the labyrinth of my intestines

meandering back and forth

and I knew I would not be able to find it

whether in light or dark

chaos or order

I would not be able to find it

or any other tool he asked me to go retrieve-

I would return empty handed

again and the bolt and nut

and washer, loose in my gut,

would all melt

and upon my return