it won’t occur to me
how clean
is hell
(the eyes) (have arms) (but not) (hands)
the ghosts of my son
they get
along
mouth a souvenir from the exodus of shapes-
her mom
ate something
blue
someone’s been using my toothbrush. the neighbor’s baby is all stomach. dad is burying the leash of a balloon animal. the church has come out as being against my mom’s spacesuit. brother bows to loneliness like a rhino before a scarecrow. my toothbrush is blue. tell god we’re away.
for Brian Dawson
I learn early on in the poem
that god can hear an insect
cry. how terrible.
there’s more-
we lose electric and fumble on all fours for the hand of a sockless toddler. bible of the dream-free spider.
it is heard underwater that there have been recent innovations in childlessness
the chain-smoker’s
projected
backstroke
we put your favorite chair in your favorite place to stand. you are still as human as the suppression of appetite. people drift in and out of weird dogs that your brothers call grief and your sister the aliens that remember god.
