You Are Always Here —> x

When you’re walking down the street

holding your life like a nothing-balloon

above your head, your allegiance

to the fork is unassailable.

I was never so spatially challenged

that I couldn’t find anything better

than an axe in a liquor store.

I was never that naïve.

I believe in my own disbelief.

I believe in a few things of my own losing.

I believe in the acne-scarred skin

of the orange I dig my thumbs into

on a Saturday afternoon, the accidental claw

of the cat leaping from my lap, the oxygen tent

in which lies crash-damaged the alien

that used to be my father. The radio

issuing a burbling stream of alphabet

over my cupped hands. And yet

I thirst. There’s something

I never said before, there must be.

I imagine all the children I never had

thanking me for sparing them this life

my kiss of death. You’re welcome, I whisper,

and pull the darkness back

over their bright little heads, still singing.

Oh my darling Brussels sprouts!

The moon,

bitter as an aspirin.

My black lips

talking
talking like this without me.