by Jason Visconti
I wish its scars were an imaginary friend,
the trotting of my feet alongside a welcome wind,
the pride of my sleep while lying in love’s covers.
I wish they were an unexpected recess
Toting my conduct as sweet–
Their salutations planting in my garden of innocence.
I wish the belt buckle were
A raised hoop
I could throw my body into
And circle back again.
I wish each violent slap
Were a kiss on a whim.