the lilikoi
vines pull themselves
through the
windows, thieves feasting on the stench.
this house festers
in its own loneliness
and
releases itself back into the world -
there are
no children.
now, you
are doled out here and there
soup and
bread for the curious
in a box of
photographs, gathering dust and
dried up
millipedes.
you leap
from the aircraft,
shoulders
pulled over themselves, and
hurtle
toward the land, divided into
infinite
identical squares.
gravity
leaves you
scooping
wet sand in cupped palms,
it
trickles between fingers, treacle i
rub it
across my skin, white and
pink
and goosepimpled like
supermarket chicken breast. inspecting
the
particles, black cream
brown and
transparent
cubes, sticking to me like
so
many limpets; forearms, calves, the
small
of my back. the fleshy fields
on the
inside of my thigh.
sinking
back into the sea they
leave
me, a galaxy of microscopic meteors;
a
salty surrender.
do you have any pets? of course, he said.
every modern family has pets,
they keep the kids entertained.
we used to
have a budgerigar,
but he got away...
luckily, the cockatiel can’t escape –
its wings have atrophied from
being kept in a cage.
it can fly about as far
as a chicken, maybe less
[he said with an awkward chuckle]
my sister named it Nancy, but then we found out
it was a boy.
our youngest cat has bulimia –
it gorges itself on cat food, every night
then vomits it back onto the carpet
every night – that’s why
we don’t let that cat inside very often.
none if it really interests me, he said –
i’d rather play with my war figurines
and read comic books.
i turn to face the
skyline,
pumpkin seeds clenched
in my fist.
a pigeon nuzzles into
itself, one
red eye rolling, a tiny
marble.
church spires prick like
pins;
tent poles, holding the
clouds aloft for centuries.
patti didn’t pick up
the guitar until she was twenty-three
nor robert the camera
and henry didn’t write
anything decent until his hair was already
swooping from the
temples.
i put down the pen and
sink back into the sun.
