mother is watching a show that keeps her from picturing the gods who portray us. father is choosing an ice cube to bury. myself I am very close to stripping for the cigarette my sister rescued from a baby’s crayon box in a dream that smelled like her clothes.
the rare
the black
the eyes
come in threes
being ours. being her memory’s
unsent
reply.
warming his hands above a baby’s crib.
massaging the lame leg of a dog at rest.
accidentally crushing the pack of cigarettes in his right shoe.
the less said about god’s addiction to brevity
as heard
by the angel
of birth
I acquired you as an infant from a gentleman who needed parts for a radio he planned to invent. listening to his radio was a long way off. you sat early. you called me mother before I was ready. if I was good, you’d play a videocassette to watch it dream. I looked at stars and you were a toddler. our life was life on other planets until the gentleman returned. he said he’d seen satan in a space suit and that satan had given him signs of sexual abuse. you were not unrecognizably depressed but did start a fire in a photograph.
kingsoftrain 