to heal her father, she asks me to brush her hair. she promises that when I’m done she’ll not only show me the scab but also remove it so I can see where her batteries go. the knots in her hair are ungodly. she says to leave them. she says she can get any cat to come inside. masturbation is new to me. I almost announce aloud that I must look often like I am trying to get a pair of scissors to eat snow.
my father snaps his shovel stealing snow from our travel-addicted neighbor. his mute sister’s last confession is a first. his doctor brother’s dollhouse is a hospital. television is a byproduct of my mother’s human longing for animals. if my arms were healed, I’d keep the baby from swatting its penis. I call my next trick rabbit sorrow.
whenever the doorbell rings, father says it’s broken. the outside world must be a quiet place to lose a baby. wow. the scratch on my memory makes me think we had a cat
or a mother
with time.
most babies here are born without a trigger finger.
but some
get through.
the spotlight
a dog
pushes
with its nose.
not yet death
but death’s
wheelchair.
a revised
stance
on angels
as recognized
by those
one has
not met.
she thought nothing
of the penis
shaped
bar
of soap, and nothing
of the boys
who’d no doubt
worked together
in close
quarters
to create
from their
gods
the ball
god
dropped, and still
nothing
of the note
in her locker
instructing her
on how
to take
a bath- not everything
takes the form
of a sickly
double
afraid
to meet
its match
it suggests
the email
of someone
I’ve lost.
certain symptoms
return
no results.
brother blames his bad back
on being
the bad
back
of a shaman.
illness
is the real
magic.
I saw my father
standing on a chair
waiting for god
to take him
for a walk.
I started sleepwalking
around the same time
I pretended
to sleepwalk.
there was this bible
one had to step on
to reach the phone.
the past
the one
event
a life
is known for
it is coming to an end but I am still very proud to have kept my hands from my eyes for so long. as for my ears, he hits me for letting them ring. I hear by example. I hear your father doesn’t need to look to know he’s been caught by his reflection. as a last act, I hold this baby over a rain puddle, the devil’s television.
