So many lost. Rain vanishes As if rain never Existed. My dual wombs, Empty-basined, fill with heat.
My slashed through Languages, Shattered bloodlines. Diaspora, voices Outstretched and Stretching Into future tenses.
In stumbling mist, My twin tongues Taste our future. My rubble-voiced blood Consults narrow odds That open like dancing, Improbable oceans. We will exist
As rivers run to seas. Fresh and salt. Mingled and mending.
Jay Daugherty – “The Cannibal’s Cantabile”Jay Daugherty – “The Difference Between an Opera and a Frying Pan”Jay Daugherty – “The Number 5 Never Occurs in the Mineral Kingdom”
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.…
At nine in the morning, I have my hot cocoa cooling, my “Santa Baby” song playing, and my red dress on. For the first time in my life—twenty-two years—I’m going to celebrate Christmas. I know what to expect because I’ve seen it in the movies.
Yearly, I’ve constructed Christmas in my head with what I’ve learned from films. And I’m not talking about those flicks in which people want to escape the holiday tradition to go to the beach or get drunk somewhere, that’s ludicrous. When I imagine this special occasion, I see a wide-smile-family decorating a real pine tree, children opening presents, a table set with a feast like those shown in seasonal magazines, and everyone gathered around the fireplace wearing a Santa hat and talking merrily while listening to carols and eating dessert.…
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.
