Poetry

Dad, he truly was a bum, a defenses' dream, a knock-kneed,
cockeyed excuse for a quarterback. Just as you said,

if there is one thing I know
it's this storm how rain sloshed over

How long he kept your name for himself-

A small planet of nothing but dust,
abandoned basketball courts—
a few hapless donkeys…

So Don't stare, the mother snaps
at the child who doesn't mean to reduce
this dwarf, that cleft face, those
conjoined twins to oddity.

On the day of your wedding, I broke into the church.

HOW DARE
the mayor of
Philadelphia refuse
our collective joy of
rollercoasters
over buses

If we assume two things—one, that the best place to start is the beginning, and two, that the Heliopolitan Cosmogony is accurate—then we ought to start with an androgynous figure masturbating.

Ignore your brothers and sisters
until you secure your place
in the pouch. Then grow up quickly.

An open hand
Pops
The shallow drum