I put my foot upon the ledge and sweep
my hand across the mantle. Through the miniblinds
a girl tries baby talk on matched Labs. She believes
in love. Let's call her Sally. The dogs something ancient.
I was young when the gull hit my windshield.
All I could think was can I eat this? That was the monotony
of desire, backing ticks out of my thigh
with a lit kitchen match.
One son loved the ones with teeth. The other
needed my hand on the spring of his spine.
She's running the bases, my heart raps low oil.
Nips in the dark. That one big lamp.
My hand holds an Allosaur.
When I was old enough,
I married for money.
She's julienned by false light and window slats. She's hungry
for home. She's on her back. The dogs are indifferent.
One son called to talk about teleporting and said
all the atoms in all the galaxies could not describe
how we're put together.
Apparently, some of them were feathered.
It took a catastrophe to kill them.
And a woman says to me: "See that tree?"
But all I see is the blade on the bark.
My God, the stars. Sheís raised her arms,
she's tracing something : scales, a bodice,
the claws of Cancer.
They may have been warm-blooded.
It isnít written on the tag.
When I visited the link to Ronís obituary,
it was already changed to today. A man from Madrid
was struck by a dumptruck.
My children always get me a watch
for holidays. I take off the last watch
and put on another.
They're arranged by era now
in labeled Tupperware. The girl's
gone. She couldn't wait.
Let's call her Rosemary.