this warm baptist mug
recalls a lost existence
no one knows you now
aging wooden home
you are riddled with phantoms
childhood is a ghost
call it what you will
criticism only left
some stark bitter taste
i flush my mouth out without
thinking of the rust in the
pump i latch onto
plunged beneath the concrete stained
that burgundy/brown
this river is flecked
with muck and mud and algae
with no fish to feed
please don’t throw me in
it is all encompassing
it is engrossing
don’t breathe a word about the
stench it is no fault of mine
i was clean and i
glistened but now i feel so
deeply polluted
exhaustion is real
here and guilt is resonant
sorry for breaking

Born and raised in and around Richmond, Eric Kalata has been writing poetry and playing guitar since he was 13 years old. This is his first published poem. Find him on Instagram @scumbagkalat and hear his music at scumbagkalat.bandcamp.com.
Illustration by Paul Hostetler