This morning I pounded
a nail into the wall
using a book
by Franz Kafka.
In the Wellesley
spread in rows
The upper third color field
is all tin flash, ocean blue shoulders and tics.
That wide mid-brown crossed by shine is sand
and fresh water going home.
like a small child hidden in a hollow tree
while the soldiers kill his family
You are on the table
but also floating
in the center
of a lake.
A knows of B
That after grim chemo his hair came back
The doctors reckoned they’d licked his disease
I don’t want to complain about my mother, because she did a lot of nice things. Some very considerate things. She came to Boston when my younger son was born … Continue reading
my mother has worked her way up
through the wave-rungs
of the spirit-corps’ fleshless ladder—
secretary of the afterworld