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
