on Saturday, April 27, 2013
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.