WHITE PARK, 2:57 PM (WINTER 2007)
standing in the woods at the park
i cannot conjure anyone's face but his
(& isn't that just /
the saddest joke?)
the only time i saw him hit someone
who was not me, i caught hysteria
mob fever / & helpless relief
then
the kind of shame
that swallows
without chewing
we, thirty-some circling
vultures, kettled
around the two boys / no more
than fifteen / & in the middle
of winter with christmas coming
i held his backpack the way,
years later, someone would hold
my hair
it was cold us standing there
watching what we thought
would be a fight to the death
watching boys be boys
& cheering / a tradition
i grew into (practiced despite)
tiny holly berries
peppering
the snow
LIBERTY STREET, 3:32 PM (WINTER 2007 REPRISE)
maybe if i had stayed there
i would have said something /
anything
& i could have walked home
or ran away from it
maybe if i hadn't seen
the tooth pop out
of his mouth / have you ever plucked off
a dandelion head
with your fingers?
if the snow didn't look
like a poor excuse
for light
if he hadn't practiced
on my blank canvas
of a face
if i hadn't taken
a pregnancy test
the week before
if i hadn't slid
into the driver's seat
of the Beamer
if i hadn't had to learn
how to make a clean break
(the only time i ever drove stick
was running from the cops
& i didn't stall once)
EAST SIDE DRIVE, 3:42 PM (CEILINGCLOUD)
& the boy who hits you lives on a street
with the same name as your mother
which teaches you everything
you need to know
about silence / & time doesn't give a shit
about anything but itself
& so it leaves you there
in a bedroom in a stained apartment
staring at the speckled ceiling
waiting for the end
for anything
else
& asking why? why have you forsaken me?
when you don't even believe
in god
HAMPTON STREET, 8:03 PM (BIRDHOUSE)
he, a deceit of vultures
kettling with fist & mine
& i will not get out for good today
& the cop who will be
in my parents' living room tonight
is an old owl of a man
who knows me too well
& so my mouth will be
an empty wooden room, i will say
nothing at all
& there will be no blackbird
trilling thorns
from my throat, no great potoo
wailing into this too big night—
there will just be me
& this birdhouse built
for silence
there will be a shower drain
catching feathers as if a sieve
gleaning luck or pretty coins
but in the morning, he will be
nothing if not a vise of finches
rising purple
from my blood