Your family leaves old pictures
up, soft blond seeds of old
life: preserved dysphoria jam.

Blue eyes similar, but framed
darker now in thick hair, rougher
skin. Your palms taste the same.

You feel the spear in your side
each time a pretty skeleton
looks at you. Their eye-sockets

do not blink. You cannot tip
frames upside down upon entering
the room without making a scene.

Your family does not want
you to make a scene. Talk about
art, talk about politics—but not

too dirty—talk about music
without making too much
of a statement. Sip tea all the way

out the door. Leave with your wife
at the end of the night. You’ll
undress in silence, fill the same bed.

Remi Recchia holds an MFA in Poetry from Bowling Green State University, where he served as Assistant Poetry Editor for the Mid-American Review and taught Creative Writing. His work has appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Front Porch, Gravel, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Haverthorn Press, and Barzakh Magazine, among others. He is currently a candidate for a Ph.D. in English-Creative Writing at Oklahoma State University.