Even at a distance
you could tell
that the mound
behind the above-ground pool
had once been alive.
The way the surface
yielded slightly
as the young boy
stood aloft in his boots
as though seeing
the New World
for the first time.
Then it was obvious.
He grabbed onto antlers
tugging the mass
closer to his cocker spaniel
dipping his fingers
into the liquid pot of the entry point
and sniffing them.

In cities, across the world, men are turning
on lamps as women twist in the dream
of the car underground.  The road-signs
say Steep, Continue with Caution but the car
wants to calculate loss, to scoff at progress,
both tender and loyal.  To lean back and roll.
Up ahead—white headlights—the dog-god
eyes of the insomniac regarding the petty
sleeper, her mouth wet and clenched like the
grip on a wheel.  Body wrapped like one who
is falling, yellow highway ribbons a cursive
for breath, heartbeats; tiny soldier staking
his claim.  They lie like this in one bed.
Sheets, cotton and clean, clock clicking its
insistent pulse.  Amazing, the distance
we live from one another, the dark that
we travel, unloading our suitcases of
small animal desire.  Alone as one must
be to navigate those lower roads until
morning, when she hands him the cup.

My daughter's chin
fits perfectly
within
my cupped hand.

I hold her
like this,
feeling
the finite edge
of this geometry,
where her bony angles
meet the triangle
I make of my palm,

and fitting snugly,
my daughter resting here with me,
the proof to this equation
floats beyond my grasp of mathematics,
of everything they could not teach me.

If asked about her work
she would say I'm a
professional bed tester.
In time, she found
that she did lead her family
in many ways.

One day, she found a frozen
field along one side
of the old house.
Her boots crashed through
to slush, leaving deep holes
that filled with water.

Making sure everything's all right,
that's my job, she thought, darting
a handful of tulips into each
melting footprint.

The entire party I avoided Direct
confrontation was Never in our shared
Sixty years ago she set The tone
of our connection was careful Encounter-
ing naked vulnerability was Never see,
say, show All you know for Sure, I could
have looked at The evidence was available
Allegedly, I could have seen for myself Before
we slid it on Rollers took My mother's
casket with her in it Presumably, after we
left they lowered her into The ground
of all our knowing is trust.

We went into the woods
Or was it a golf course.
It was dark.

You held my hand
Or was it my neck.
Stars shone.

I thought to speak
Or attract attention.
The grass was wet.

Mother asked me today
How my date went.
I could not say.

Mom is making Chili
Which means she is throwing
Every stray chunk of chicken,
Crumbled last week's hamburgers,
Shreds of cheese and all those vegetables that are
Almost
Too old
Into a pot, turning up the heat and making
Something new and delicious to feed us for many meals to come.
She's so skilled at combining scraps of things
with a place no longer and making them belong.
She adds just a splash of spice
To conceal flavors that may clash,
After all, not everything can fit together perfectly.
I want to ask her, was she always so skilled
At scrounging up her own life?
Of taking the self-pierced ear,
The cigarette addiction, run-off boyfriend,
Miniskirts concealed in backpacks and
Harassment for simply being a woman with dreams
In a man-made nightmare
And making something of it?
And all those ingredients, some of which I can't identify,
But one of which I know I am,
Did they end up fitting together
In a recipe-less mass of varying flavors?
And after all this time
does it still taste good to her reheated?
I hope so
because I'm already collecting leftovers
And I need to learn to make chili.

Like gravity death always seeks the ground.
Before the war when smallpox scarred the young
and old, the unclean—to dull the idle tongue—
were carted, alive, to where they heard the sound
of shovels digging up the dirt all around
the Pest House, waiting for another weak lung
to peter out, its death, the stench, not sung
by preacher or poet. When Dr. Terrell found
soldiers, rotting alive in the busy graveyard,
he looked neither to the north nor south but saved
their eyes. He painted the Pest House black, not white,
and sprinkled, not incense, but sand, dry and hard,
on the floor, and with oil and limewater, he bathed
their flesh. This Quaker robbed their death of light.

America, I bumped into you in a crowded train station,
you came up quick behind me and said,
"Hey! Hold my hostages for me, I'll just be a minute."
When you came back I was your prisoner.

So where are we going America?
Goin' where the sun is warmer?
Goin' where you can stretch your stubbled legs a little better?
Goin' to bask in your glory?
Cuddle up with it tight, close your eyes gently.
Keeping your dreams to yourself.
And every success story is deja vu.

America you swallowed us whole at the dawn of time,
we've been working our way through your stomach lining
with pocket knives.
America, how vast is that infinity, and
where are my real parents?
Ah, you wouldn't tell me if you could.

America I get sick at the very taste of blood
so I climbed your esophagus to meet all the tears
that ever slid down the back of your throat.
And suddenly my taste buds disappeared,
leaving only a gag reflex.

America your lips are sticky, painted and lusting
but your eyes love me.
While we dance I feel the blisters on your hands,
I know you're embarrassed.

America, I'm fiddling with your belt buckle
entertaining your frustrated genitals.
America, are you picturing me as someone else?
What's his name?
Don't say it.

Crane looked into his canine heart
Two beats ahead of knowing
He put hands in the unnamed
His appetites, his pleasures
He wrote with half-lidded eyes
Saw ghosts not yet made
Young men full of blood
Delighting in Aesma Daeva
War, the desert wind, flesh burning
All young madness lives in him
His wound was desire