They make me want to write an elegy. About what, I don’t know.
Is that the nostalgia I’ve been warned about? Probably.
Watching birds hog the feeder makes me think of them,
so how about I start there? A place I can see from where I sit.
I’ve tried to describe movements of shadows. Silent
creeps of cool. I’ve pretended small things are most
important. But really I wonder if my unborn child would
hate their parents too. I am capable of treachery.
Oh yes. I make shit up all the time. It’s all
a multi-layered state like Dante’s hell circles.
Don’t ask me to try and describe anything. No, I can’t
do it. But I am a master of leaving others behind.
Is that so bad? There was a mother who walked
with a cane. A father whose voice was broken
from cancer’s rot. For forty years they walked arm
in arm, and I never believed them. Not for a minute
did I consider they might actually know love. Truth
be told, I feel sorry for myself. I want to taste love.
But it pays me no mind. Now I wonder if this
is true. Instead of feeling sad, or screaming
into a pillow, my body is stone. I cut my heart into marble
cubes and tap the teeth of the living. Music to vibrate
skulls. My fate—a frozen city. I bundle up and pretend.
Then eventually forget how I ever got to a place like this.