I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…
You’ve spent a lifetime training
Infant’s Name: A
Delivery Date: August 1, 2002
And then he feels that familiar sensation of drifting—when his body untethers from the material world and he soon dissolves into a fine, floating mist that evaporates into the atmosphere.
Darkness always follows.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.
Still life all the time inspired by scenes of domestic life.
There is so little left of the tomato plants.
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
My dad was an inveterate theatergoer in the old country where theatre reigned supreme before the Soviets, under the Soviets, after the Soviets.
None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.