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to the repetition of words
the wire shorted out from the rain
that day she took her shoes off, was
drenched. just wait till i get over
this illness. she will not wait. wraps
what’s left of it around the input/output.
i must’ve heard those strung-together voices
in the part of the iceberg that’s below
the surface of the water. i never plugged up
my ears. it’s not healthy to wound a wound
every night while your lover sleeps. she knows
this, we all do. and yet, what is most beautiful.
celebration in year of the storm
the mantle decorations had been gaudier,
and always before they had cookies, tins
and tins of them. cookier. other things
missing: mistletoe, a fire, the white cat.
instead, the dog had an operation, limped
around, the leg shaved and raw. like the
grey of refrigerated chicken. the pain
pills made him slow, a waking dream.
today it would take all of their might to
upright the wooden swing from where
it had blown over in the storm. a lot of
the yard showed signs of damage, trees
down, water in the shed. last year they
had strung lights from the flagpole. of
course, they’d been just a little happier
then, in comparison.
after song, my home
daddy shot up a fence-row of blackbirds when
he was a boy. back at the old
clapboard house, the tree-cupped palm of valley, gran took baby to the city;
left them boys to range
the land. singin one be hidin, one done gone, and one, he
fell down dead. hang
the seasons in the barn. said tobacco be up soon. said those birds were easy to kill,
but the bodies were a fright. the late fruit fell, was
overripe, all breast-broke-open
and juicy. had to count each bell of head, mark each dainty thimble, beak-points
sharp
as sewing needles. hard as sewing needles.
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