|Jul/Aug 2001 • Poetry|
My fern almost died.
I remember the roller-coasters
In the magical parks.
Cars on tracks, chewed lips.
My favorite one
Wasn't the fastest or tallest.
The television is crackling.
The wind doesn't sound like anything.
I passed my old neighbor near sickness.
The cigarettes tasted like cordials.
No, that's not it. The smoke
Dried out the epithelial tissue.
Still, it was a flavorful inhalation.
Rats hung around the cafeteria.
The scallion vendor appeared
In the field that we used for growing nothing.
Nothing ever grew there.
No one knew how to grow anything on it.
I don't know why it was a field.
There wasn't anything there & there still isn't.
It's a comforting illusion that no one cares
That sedan crushed a pig in the street
& the driver slammed on the brakes.
Fat raindrops spattered on the dust
We were taught to fear.
The heat dropped.
I cried too much & ate everything
As I counted my possessions—
Everything you had &
What we drink.
It stands to reason that he stands in a shack
While the nurturing smells drift up.
A lighter from his pocket
Explodes on the ground—
Only here in this moment
He runs around buying everything.