These are not my hands they are my mother’s. Fashioned while I floated in her grotto. A torso like Laurasia; every limb a language in its drift. They are small. They are delicate. Tender as a nurturing tongue— the soothe of her evening song. A man should not have palms so silked & supple. It’s a woman’s watch I sport around my wrist—since it’s the only one that fits. It wasn’t hers— that was entombed about her carpus in ‘89. Mine is just a thirteen- dollar knock-off. It rem

I never would have pronounced it Myeengun when I was 3. A name needed to be mono- syllabic, in the utopic “Summer of Love.” There is little I recollect, and wouldn’t save the T of tangerine. I remember our philia—thinking it utters ally— bedfellow back in the day. There were 67 left in ’67. School is now synonymous with his death. And I bemoaned a rubber ball against my skull. Just a welt and not a crack. Bequeathed a lasting phobia of lacrosse. For the single year I knew h

Bad things come in threes has been debunked. A deuce will clearly suffice—for maleficence to unleash its ruination: the left/right dénouement— to the goblet of a boxer’s chin; the fentanyl which will follow— gulped with Whitley’s gin. The discarding of the gloves that botched the job. We thought that two had spoke of balance— the drop of the other shoe; a seesaw’s down & up; for better and— the nuthatch on the bough, tearing itself asunder, each wing off to flee their sep

Take my yolk upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and lowly in heart… —Matthew 11:29 It was birthed by every bend you undertook. There in your mother’s garden, hoisting up the ants as if the Rapture. A three-year-old reaping angel. Fingering their antennae as though the strings of a hydro pole—messages in the wire you cannot hear yet somehow see. You envision its wooden T, say it sagged while bidding your father bon voyage. The encumbrance from screaming love into its li

You’ve stopped your weekly visits, the uncorking of Baco Noir, the finger in the cheek we heard as kids, suspecting I've breached a perimeter, which I confuse with parameter, their neither/nor abyss, claim you want to preserve our friendship, as only the ice can do; this affection of another kind we cannot christen, our sibling-like rapport, this anything-but-fall-in-love— which permits a single captive to abscond—cold-hearted prefect, perfect in its judgement, opting for t

Here, in the conduits of our progeny. The house that’s raised in brick. An Oscar on a mantel or a canvas in the Louvre. A published book of scribbles. A pulse in the pith of psalm. It’s not my poem that hearkens love—it’s the blossom on its page along the binding. Its loss of scent to must. Its oblation of the sun for the pall of dust. Compressed as though there’s more it could have bled. Forfeiting every drone of apidae, the imbibing of its nectar—for a quell like the foot o

You respond to my curtains’ close with a galling no man is an island. I was never a fan of Donne, the tumult from his tolling bell a cuckoo clock—I learned to hate the birds because of it. However I’ll acquiesce. His verses are immortal— mine are not— as a result, I’ll become a promontory, jutting into the sea like a middle finger. I’ll surround myself with gators, piranha & electric eels—the jolt of a wired fence; a peninsula’s way to taunt you are not welcome— but should

They say when you cannot dream the madness will surely come. As if the pelican in your sleep is perfectly sane. The duffel in its jaw a trove of onions. Their skins will forge your poems. Metaphors are translucent. The robber at the bank stole everything but the cash. Held it up with a staple gun. Swiped a lifetime supply of stickies. Now paper clips clamp his tie. Inhales the Mr. Sketch as though it’s glue. Elmer’s gave our fingers another epidermis. Remember? Why the bull

But of that day and hour no one knows… —Matthew 24:36 Tomorrow is the most sacred day on the calendar. It’s filled with solemn promise— gleams like the face of Moses, stepping down in awe from Sinai’s cloud. Even Sol can’t mirror its brilliance; Sirius surpassed in glory. It comes with sweat & blood, marking doors as if a Hebrew dwelt within, to be spared a first-born son. Arrives in stealth like the Angel of the Lord. The altar of Tomorrow will exceed our lamb & wine. A cu

This is the first time we’ve been here since 9/11. The seedling that was planted gives us shade. The toddler who kicked our ball might be a surgeon. The ins & outs of brains. The infant in a stroller’s given birth. Maybe that is her behind the swings, pushing both her twins who’ll live forever. You tell me I’m mistaken. We were here in 2010— albeit half-an-hour. The sun had melt our lollies. A woman who was pregnant said hello. Her stomach like a wet balloon. Her child by n

They say you shouldn’t swim if you can’t see the bottom of the lake. Four steps out and fog below the surface. You respond in kind with murk. An earthen appellation? Cannot be called the same as what’s in water. And what will you call me, darling, as I slip beneath the sheen? My toes which feel the slime you’re clearly convinced we should not touch? My chancing Neptune’s cleansed it all with purging breath? Air is not the air that’s under the grade. Where the stones which y

It’s the full moon that is boring, you orate as you set up your reflector in the dusk. Its vanity of look at me. The crescent is a judging karambit, one for the end of days; a reaper of galactic grains. The half-moon speaks of balance, a cosmic yin & yan. Its meld of frump/enchantress. The radiance. The acne and its aftermath of scars. You add you speak of Luna not your face. And then when it’s abstruse. The shroud of modesty. Or hiding what we envisage to be there. A dusty,

White is not the void we think it is. Even when blanc et blanc. Do not call me lazy since my 8 by 11 is framed— my initials in the upper left. Don’t whisper it’s been upended, like a slew foot while the ref had scratched his nose. What is the colour of ice before you bleed? Our galaxy has no inverse. Nothing can be capsized in the sun. I stood on my skull to prove it—pondering less-is-much. The Buddhists put to shame. Your jealousy is unbecoming. You could have been a prodi

It’s not a different drum to which I march. It’s an inimitable trumpet instead. There’s actually no parading involved. You’ll assume I’m talking Davis— miles of midnight blue. Or maybe Louis Armstrong— the asphalt of his voice. Gillespie makes me dizzy— the spin of his crooked horn. The bend within the tunnel— where light has gone to die. Symmetry has no place to hang its head. You will be & I will bop. There’s Arturo & his Latin Train, the scorch of señoritas. More ahhhs t

Our dilly-dally dog is the reason that we’ll die. His last-second sniffing of the soil. The bug in the corner of his sight. The mantis that will leap instead of pray will bear the blame on second thought. Our smashing through the windshield— like a baseball that’s been clubbed into a neighbour’s just-put-in stained glass. The shepherd and his lamb. The key I forgot to oil will be the death of us. Its resistant nudge of time. You should have prodded me to buy a lubricant. Dist

She showed us nothing is beyond our mercy. Watch her play the lifeguard as her palm’s a paramedic for mosquitos. Form an IV with her veins. Even locusts get CPR— the warmth of her every breath on each appendage. She gave her Cheerios to the voles we scoffed were vermin. Stuffed them through the cracks like tiny donuts. She offered kernels to the crows so they’d forget about the worms. The more it poured the greater her recompense. Repaying her weathered umbrella for all the y

This carny is a smarmy huckster. Uses shells once home to snails. Swiped their only domicile. Even the pea feels guilt. He’s the realtor keeping mum about a murder. Boasts about location. A public school adjacent. We’ll see its boarded windows— he’ll say it’s only closed for renovations. Will reopen slicked in tech. We’ll wonder about the other houseless laggards. He’ll say it’s evolution. That the French prefer the crunch of vacant husks. My mind depicts the one that slipp

Math is a peculiar beast. It’s how we frame the cosmos. Its meld of number/letter. It’s the way we fell our gods. The preacher on the corner disagrees. Jesus thought of each of us on the cross. Hands me a tract on hell, how we’ll spin like it’s the spit at Swiss Chalet. A geneticist was asked how many of us fuckups have ever lived. 117 billion. Ten seconds for every one would take thirty-seven thousand jaunts about the sun. That’s a long time to be hanging in the pall of our

Your line in the play was a monosyllabic moment. The tree in the leafy corner calling hark! You could easily recollect it rhymed with bark— yet still you flubbed it up— the boy who played the beagle yipped & yapped, you lost your easy cue with his distraction. Snoopy uttered nada for 50 years. We were privy to his thoughts & nothing more. What would the balloon around your skull bare as you skulk in a comic strip? Acting as if you’re mute or Marcel Marceau. Or the extra in t

You say she’s the farmer’s daughter. I argue she’s his wife— regardless of what Wood unveiled in 1941. You’ll add that we can see it by her somber, vacant stare. A spouse would acquiesce— to the fate the cards have proffered. A daughter still harbours hopes of emancipation. I counter I can’t imagine them playing Fish. Gin Rummy. Strip Poker’s out of the question either way. Maybe Milk & Lemonade. The object of the game is to acquire the 2 of Hearts. It’s the only face that