It becomes interesting with age,
how things end, how one ends.
I don’t remember when
my parents began reading obituaries
in the local paper, ticking off
the names and vinculations,
fixing the dead in the genealogy
of the town in which they would
essentially die and be interred.
Never a local, deaths escape me,
surprise me, months, years
after their immediate fact.
But yes, I read the obituaries
of strangers, often disappointed
by lack of specifics. The ages
are of interest. It’s as if my seating
group has been called to board
for the last flight, and we’re
gathering possessions before
going down the ramp. We’re already
past security, and the girl at the gate
will check my passport and ticket,
insist on putting my carry-on
through to its final destination.…
...continue reading
From behind a limp curtain the elderly girl detective sees through a row
of windows: a hand petting a cobra, a woman’s shadowy profile, a small
stuffed .alligator. on. a. velvet. cushion. Clues to what?. The secret of life
and death is. only the clock. Down a long linoleum corridor of tarnished
numbers,. a door. clicks shut. .Evening light,. slanted, yellow.. She keeps
her deductions private, a silence filled up with land sakes, imaginary pie
in the. cold oven. .Ghost. granny,. in. worn print.dress,. in. favorite chair.
Who is in charge.
– Martha McCollough…
...continue reading
with variations on two lines by Kafka
At some point, the stars stop looking
at us. For them, life is a costume ball,
but we attend wearing nothing but our
real faces. And our debt. We have our
tea and naps. Our struggles to be kind
to the jackboots. There is infinite hope,
but not for us. The stars have plans
about opening a boutique that wouldn’t
allow them inside. They want nothing
to be left of them but their names
and stylized drawings of their eyes.
Before they got famous, they spent
their evenings looking at portraits
of the backs of their own heads.
We can barely afford cable. Every
door, every eye on the street could
belong to tomorrow for them. They
say light won’t make you happy,
but they’ve never drowned in the dark.…
...continue reading
It is the worst summer on record
not because the woman up the street is dead—
I think it’s more likely that she shot herself
because July was already untenable.
When June withered and rotted on the vine
we were left with nothing but the realization
that you can’t outrun something that’s saturated the air
as heavy as humidity. There is only the slow dizzy crawl
out of the path of the sun, the endless laps I traced
around the cul-de-sac, noting 9806 only for its anthills
dead and vacant as the windows
with their dust and their cobwebs.
I hover at the cracked front door as the cops
descend like a clutter of blue-backed spiders
and wrap the street in a web of yellow tape
tying up every unfortunate delivery man;
the husband on his knees in the driveway
the only one immobilized of his own accord. …
...continue reading
A refusal:
burnt and grounded,
blunt, unfounded, to set
aggression alight.
Breakfast is deserved.
Are you going to
bring it back to the kitchen
before you dismantle your nearest orifice of
all bored holes;
burrowing bacteria in those empty sockets?
After last week’s surgery, it’s
best we
buy our deaths from the government.
Accepted, though only apathetically, amazingly.
But still, we stopped at a Wendy’s…
...continue reading
I find myself
stepping on ants
just because I can—
something I haven’t done
since I was seven.
There is a “For Sale” sign
in the manicured lawn
belonging to the maroon house
on 347 Maroon Court.
There are moving boxes
stacked neatly in the garage,
strangers trampling down the white carpet
with their shoes still on,
strawberries growing in garden beds
that will ripen in time
for fresh lips,
and lights being flicked
on and off
by the hands of those
who have no idea
that the hallway light
only turns on
when the garbage disposal is off.…
...continue reading
‘I would love to be able to be in the bathroom alone’ I remember musing
when she was small and always in my arms and on my hip that first July in the yellow house.
Those days went by so fast and while my lens was wide open and all I have now are blurred
images
of seedless green grapes cut in small pieces on a tray,
a blue kiddie pool with cold water left out on a summer morning to warm in the sun under a
cotton clothesline as I held her and hung laundry with wooden clips, while baby frogs on the side
of the garage hopped under a leaky brass garden hose spigot into moss below
and onto the meandering slate path
that kept fleeting prints
of their small
wet feet
that evaporated
into mist.…
...continue reading