The girl & I ate spaghetti
and carrot sticks
and we colored with crayons
mazes & Pokémon & cats
and rainbows & shooting stars
and then I gave her a bath,
which is the easiest way to
look at my phone
while I’m on duty.
| We said a prayer for the rats and fleas as the plague abated. We laid a wreath for Justinian. The streets of London were no longer smoke-choked, just smoking, and Rome started to smell more like Rome. At least whoever remembered “before” said as much. In the last days of the plague, the days that followed the days that had been called “last,” we made a sport of showing up at restaurants where we had never been beautiful enough to get a table, just to see if people still ate at tables, or if the food tasted like anything. We appeared at the homes of our favorite people to see if they were around, too, or if they had changed, or if they could be unchanged. We moved slowly through the halls of near-empty museums, each of us indistinguishable from the art, to be touched only with the eyes from a safe Kantian distance. As the plague’s grip on our lives slackened, we slackened too, like a body pretending it can will itself back into sleep. We prepared for travel, arranged our documents, scheduled shots. We packed—clothes, books—and packed—the spider plant with all its apostles, anything that might spoil in our absence—and kept on packing. It didn’t matter that we had no idea where we were going. This time we would be more careful to leave none of ourselves behind. |
—after “Environment for Three Overweight Parakeets”
You thought you were seeking beauty
in that plain, little box. Fixed your face
to the aperture. Inside, a chaos
of swimming through stones, doll arms cocked
After years without a single dream
of my dead son, he walks into
the living room where I am standing
at the window and holds me tightly
So simple is the soul
a house finch can haunt its innermost
ever, not for an hour, not for an era, but a
different kind of forever, as in, as in,
as in the dream of an infinite lever, & a lamb
lifts up a mountain by stepping on the end
of an endless branch propped beneath
the stone—. That dream—. Of the long ago
then, a sort of once-upon-a-
time, when the pear sang out the finch’s tune
& desire began again its how-to-
see, how-to-hear, mystery burden so hard
to bear—. Then God was a word
for the perfection that no one could name—.
A new year of trees, and in the yard
the rosemary is trying to live again,
its spines broken, darkened from the frost.
I don’t know whether to water it
or leave the plant to fortune.
Sometimes my love can drown a thing.
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