Think I don’t know nothing.Child.Stopped kissing me goodnightwhen she turned fourteen.Well.Every good thingturn to glass.Then break.She ratherstay away.Got my nose.Eyes, too.When she was little,they called her Lil Gail.Bet she don’t remember.She so busywriting things.Don’t tell your businessin front of Tameka.She will put it in a poem.She better notwrite nothingabout me.I rememberwhen I had her.Two and…
The baby-faced cholo in front of megently drops a divider bar betweenwhat’s his and mine. On my side, a six-outlet surgeprotector for my computer,and a fireproof glass cupfor my Lux Perpetua candle,a votive so powerfulit self-destructs. On his,a plastic bottle of store-brand vodka.It’s noon, but somewhereit’s happy hour. Baseball cap bad-ass backwards.Black leather from neck…
For the families of the deceased buried in Jewish Cemeteries desecratedsince January of 2017 They came with small rocksand pebbles to place on the holy groundwhere gravestones had been turned over and desecrated.They came with their relatives’ plot numbersscribbled on scraps of paper.They came with tears in their eyes,they came with their memories andgrief unfurling…
I watch the little weasel rise just partlyout of a cleft in earth, its facea periscope at sea, this way and that but not slow asan owl does it, the moon behind himin old children’s books, his giant tufted headturning full circle and rich with pause.Because the weasel isn’t patient. It’s all frenzy.Through weeds, another…
Almost two thousand years before Da Vinciimagined a machine whose screwlike overhead motor could lift the machine into vertical flight,children in China played with bamboo toys whose propellers, thin and light as dragonflywings, were set on a sharpened stick and spun into the wonder of an object spiraling in the air.The toys were brought back…
Taller than a manpitched from the earthgarbled needleblackened nowits volute screedbee- and beetle-riddenup and down betweenthe un-sprung buds, the wildefficient feel ofsmockedrabbit-skinnedexplosionspoised so slowlyon its undertakingthat it was so longbeing truethe cold and the craftlesswas not craftspotting the nichesthe leaves thexanthene core.
Make your deadness real to me now.Why should you be always so realand so near to me? I should know that you don’t know meanymore. In every sunI close my eyes and see you everywhere inside me. What does deadmean? Are there shadesof, different ways of being dead? Deadwith the damp smell of lichen, deadreally…
Your body—not disappeared into the grave but into blizzarding swan-colored lines of lace—holding something like your shape. And just like flesh you open, absorbingeach stray iridescence, each veil of updraft, upswirl, white noon scattering your edges, you’resomething like a dress I can’t put on. I am buildingyour body, building a mind to move throughevery curve…
My dead mother is more beautifulthan yours. My dead mother will always be more beautifulthan yours. Even her deadnessis more beautiful.
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