even with her fingers in her ears, she can hear the toy horse whipped. if we don’t have food, we can’t pray. my father was hired for his quickness, his hands
to salt
the rain. grief is a guard dog from the permanent circus.
my daughter is seized by a dream to endure her mother’s preoccupation with death. while waiting for his pillow’s heart to stop, my son resolves to keep the mirror’s brain. that each might skip the parts I’ve memorized, I read to them from a room I’ve put on the spot. when we pray, we’ll pray we were here to the idea we are.
could be
god
is god
because
our world
is the least
of his father’s
worries
not all
drones
dream
of you
mother, in the early stages of her food fight with god.
father, I can’t bury
my face.
in lieu
of the lord’s
dog, raise
the lord’s
bone.
for Miles J. Bell
like he’s laying
yellow
on his road
out of grief
brother
takes a drag
and keeps it
until his head
is underwater
is what they call
with apples.
his eyes
have always been
two poverties
unexplored. he is old, alien’s
heaven
he is old
but not before
he knows it.
baby, baby talk, and pilot light.
kitchens everywhere,
god is alone.
I know it is common
in drawings
to place the dream
above the boy
having it.
the contents of my mourning
include the phrase
I acquired
in secret
from a man
whose legs
were not
crushed.
I can hear myself seeing.
I exhaust my children by going back and forth on god
my father jokes that he is only attracted to gay men.
that my two left hands
must’ve rubbed a balloon
the wrong way. that if I kiss
his bald
head
I’d better
have with me
a comb.
