That tears it—I really should name the daydream starring
five of the twelve
Disciples comparing the number
And severity of their gaping wounds.
And the Sea of Galilee—
how it loves to hold the moon hostage—
Birthplace, I want to say, of the term, “blinding.”
Yesterday’s prompt from the banyan trees:
Lean into suffering, my child
Led, tragically, to the demise of an entire
Block of Vermont cheddar, extra sharp—
Who needs a gallbladder anyway to breathe?
To bathe and change
One’s aging father? Much less to read Bly’s clumsy
translation of Vallejo
To the faceless dealing fentanyl
To the trembling in the arroyos, the alleyways
Downtown, the school playgrounds,
The underground State Capital building parking lot—
Even when they give me
The cold shoulder, I vow to chat with
Detached compassion to the broken parts of me.
Hello bum knee, I’ll say.
Good morning, right shoulder bursitis.
Have a seat, somatic tinnitus.
There, there, my need to be right.
(For a far more inclusive list, see my ex-wife).
O father, scouring the lower boughs for ripe apricots—
where in godsname
Shall I enshrine your clunky walker?
Your fake bamboo cane?
And what of your go-to monosyllabic insults?
Woven as they are with I’m sorry’s and
What do you want from me’s,
mumbled low enough
So as not to scare the swallows. The trigger happy police.
The tongue tied, light deprived eaves.