September 14, 2015 § Leave a comment
marginal speakings and suchlike
over the edge of small animal bones
I have to reach back into the chronicle to engage you
‘this is my mein Lied’ I snort.
‘no one talks like that. fuck a horse.’
my masculine side is certain I ate my twin in the womb
who imagined living in Xygopitivia where biweekly you get $15
to replace tiny broken things and all time and care is given to sex
but don’t be a pill about this
for two lovers choked to death when one tried to poke her head through
the neck of the other’s sweater
(oh diode forest
why do you say things you don’t mean
terrified I’ve gone too far
I splutter away in anxious glitches)
(imagine all the times of the day spelled out over a bed of clocks
I wonder how to make an erasure of it and want to ask my sister.
realize my sister is gone and I can do this myself.)
floppy-legged caricatures with double masks and no pupils are enough
to give me ‘hope’
for I grew up watching old people die, slowly,
and when I read about it in my diary, later,
their veins come ghosting up off the page
alternately, my sister and her sister are being held captive by a man called Almost-88
who cries frequently, all over the city, warping each wooden bench made available
to numbered almosts by kindly amped-up bitches.
My sister digs up an escape device from the sand–
it’s a book with sparkling bandages plastered all over its pages
that instructs her on how to teach a new language to Other Sister
that Almost-99, who can’t stop gorging on light years, has no hope of comprehending.
Some things she writes to me when Other is otherwise occupied include:
‘I don’t know how to explain how I feel about you. I just feel it…like you’re
And later: ‘do you understand who I am?’ which is not a question.
‘If it’s to be a yet harsher winter I should like very much to perish this instant.’
This last letter she speaks aloud in her new language
while I stand waiting for her,
several winters away.