so I go down then get up and hug you like a monkey catcher
I blow up dripped in blood then get up once more dipped in honey
the hug entails all the gratitude of a grave and all the gravity of a fleeing mare: look
you have made a mark that betokens the death of light
Or just the cheek of June and the open windows – for suddenly I’m deep in the start of a story about a couple, just like us. And at first,
I feel pity for her, who keeps herself busy, pecking away at being her truest self. Then, in the blink of a skimming bat,
I pity him, who always thought he knew for certain who he truly was; which doesn’t seem to be working so well anymore.
It must be the twilight – how it fires the eyes of the pansies I planted last month. More nude, the yellow; more sly, the indigo. And now,
as day and night entwine, I see the inside-outness of tales that open playfully, and soon begin to snake and bite. For what are they doing,
she and he, circling mole-blind round a tired garden that’s starting to look like an ancient wood? I know too well that endings are tricky,
yet here I am at the edge, hearing the absent bark of a dog, who might, in fact, be a wolf. So maybe this is where it is meant to end –
with a sea-saw chill, with petals losing their glow, the smell of charcoal fading. You, somewhere else. Dogs and wolves asleep.
When the neighborhood robins started speaking fish, my father gunned down all the anomalies that perched on trees. I can still hear the ringing. Flashback to six: chasing ants with candles, fixing movements in wax. There is a pond by the worn, wooden house where ducklings cackle. I remember thinking that if chicks could wade in the water, maybe their shrill crying would stop. When my grandfather collapsed in a stairway, I wasn’t taken aback by his ending. Farm teaches death. The backyard gravel, becoming more and more maroon. The daily playtime of ripping insects apart. Dogs and cats put down for fucking all the time. Before my grandfather died, he caught me placing chicks inside pitchers. He saw drowning. I saw learning. His angry face is hard to forget. After a slaughter, we would sweep death off the ground but blood finds a way to seep beyond cleansing. Wounds don’t heal. They turn invisible. I walked barefoot into the ocean. Grasping for fish words. But the close-fisted waves said no. Let me learn, first hand, this underwater tongue. Let me tow together what I can’t keep whole.