Carry her for me
-- for Marvin
this
bitter toothless
mumbly
old lady
she
shouts at the government
via
satellite considers
sending
very important
letters
to the
FCC and
McDonald’s Corporation
the
Vatican and
whoever
is the
boss of that nice man
down at
the pet supply passes
free
kibble when she’s hungry
if she
comes out back
and it
ain’t busy
hold
close to chest my impulse
to horde
stamps ‘cause that lady
don’t
never have none
and this
giant red frog
in my
throat from all her
hollerin’
and haranguin’
her
smokin’ too I’d imagine
I bump
heads with her
in the
shower sometimes
she hates
to wash her hair
I throw
away grocery bags
daily
though I could swear I never
shop
those stores could swear instead
her bags
grow in size and quantity
despite
my antipathy
a magic
drawer or
an old
lady curse
be
fruitless
multiply
When the Saints Went
what remained: barren stalks bowing
heads
by the field-full. rusty
air conditioners dripping
from warped windowsills. rock formations
posing editorial.
hollowed out caves and dog stumps forced
ragged, toothy grins.
light blazed: a laser show shooting heat
through the tinny night. every
husk wore a well lit protrusion. a
whispered hush. somehow it was better
than the silence that surrounds each
carcass now: voided prayer. cold
arthritic grating. remembering notions
of breath. who will offer their hand to
a
wheezing shadow wishing for someone to
hold before the sure, sudden twilight?
