Down the drain
Watch. Watch carefully. See. See clearly
The comforting sound of water retreating in circles
I used to say that water turned to milk
I used to think when cream mixed with transparency
Pearls swirled and ebbed like fire flies in dark.
Kept warm beneath tiny radiators stuck on walls like beige moths
Glowing against a 40 watt bulb
Don’t open the window it’s stuck, it’s stuck on being underground
We breathe in soot, we turn ebony in our effort to
She couldn’t lift the baby carriage, in those days it weighed
More than she did and the stairs, sticky with linoleum were
Narrow like her little arms attempting to heft us toward
We mired in dark. We stayed still as stalagmite in caves
Children’s books. Detective novels. Smite the key in the lock
Green plants fitfully reaching. Reaching. Reaching
Your arm is never long enough.
Recall the smell of boar hair brush. Of Clinique blue bottles
Is it magic? How does it glow? Mouthwatering
How they had a misted outside, I ran my finger down and traced outlines
Someone in NYC designed this shape. The shape of places far and lettered.
She had wool, it got wet washing her hair, the edges frayed
It smelt like grandma’s farm with damp goat fur at 5am
Nobody had anything then. We opened our hands to emptiness
Paper lotus. Needle. Oh Lord. Darn a way out.
Everything is so different now. I did not learn how
How to join. How to thrive. What if you are
Born only of coal?
The heavy weight of circular plates laid over paving stones
A funeral of sorts, bury the mother, bury any off-spring
Only blood. Only letters after names. Knights and paupers
The history of war. Victors write. The rest rot beneath daisies.
She grew insufficiently, facing away from sun
Her skin parchment, knees knocked
The pain in her. Oh the pain in her! No words.
She closes her eyes. Turquoise like the stones found in New Mexico
When she was told that, she said; Yes I will buy a ticket
Board the plane, swallow the dream, take the red pill or
It was so savage. The quiet. The silence.
When she left there was nothing but the brush and the bottles
Gathering dust, follicles left spinning in air
Are some of those skin cells, still her?
Is it any wonder she knows best, people of vacillation
And change? She knows the feeling exactly when told one thing
Tomorrow another truth hangs primly in
Your narrow closet.
Her ear lobes are detached, she read once in a woman’s magazine
Attached ear lobes are a sign of beauty
She has larger knee caps than her shins
The skin barely covers her climb
Trees of white, pearl, honey, comb, hair brush, blue
They didn’t fix the streets they remain
And they ate coal in preparation
For their dissolution
“Il y a dans le coeur humain une génération perpétuelle de passions, en sorte que la ruine de l’une est presque toujours l’établissement d’une autre.” Rochefoucauld.