Walter Ego once said that all thematic roads, no matter how circuitous, eventually lead back to love.
On New Years Day in Philadelphia
when I was ten and you were seventy,
There’s paint slapped onto
my sky, thick like an impression
I want to buy a forest that will speak
in calm sentences about the aftermath.
It’s hard to say what we’ve missed
in these years, you not even
solid enough to be a memory
I kept my father’s ashes in a drawer
where I kept scarves, belts and Xanax.
Before me lies a whole crow
What does this muse look like? Is he slightly amorphous, made of smoke, and prone to fits of Yeats in an Irish accent?
The first time you saw me
naked, I was standing in front of the refrigerator.
My brother killed himself one Saturday morning, just to spite my mother.