Lucky

I rip out a useless cord from the wall, wrap it

around my waist to feel more umbilical. I am my own

mother. I hijack the mail from the mail man’s hands

as if the porch were its own vacation, lawless & bronze.

Maybe the lottery is a love song we know the lyrics to

but not the tune. I scratch the back of my head

with a penny, become famous for a second. On the roof,

where I do my thinking, clouds drift into a banana

split. The neighbors argue between sliding glass, their hair

ashing like the gray dots of smoked cigarettes. I roll up

my sleeves, flex out a smile. If you’re lucky

in this life you will find mercy in the rain. If you

listen closely, the birds are sleeping. What sounds like

the ocean after a boat has been sunk to an island of loss.

Orca Song

You say fire

ant & I hear tomato

freckle. I say blow

torch, you say which

ear. We hear things

backwards. I wear

the rug like a shawl,

splash my face

with toilet water.

The kind of king

who drinks the worm.

The kind of letter

inked from a bottle.

Without thinking

I say tomorrow

& you whisper

divorce. You dream

a green bird enflamed

resting on my shoulder

& you are the bird &

I am the transition

between color & ashes

& failed flight. We break

out the good stuff, that liquid

hourglass. We live for

the moments inside

our moments. For blue

weather, bluer songs.

If time is a velvet atlas

on the back of a killer

whale, maybe it is better

to see like a bee. Honey,

then sting. Honey, goodnight.

Honey black, honey white.

Mushroom Television

I dangle a ring of keys in my mouth like a dog bone, a letter

to a friend I’ll never send, an invisible lover’s underwear.

Whatever unlocks this grave I keep on digging it. These days

even cancer is getting cancer. Winter culls above like some forever

carport, aluminum snow. I watch the neighbors argue with their hands,

bodies, & eyes while the deer go to town on the dead hydrangeas.

We’re all working something out. I flip the channel from sports to news

to noir comedy. I haven’t left 1966. Inside our brains are chemicals

more valuable than diamonds. A commercial of Jesus flipping

burgers & downing suds & tossing a touchdown to Grandmother Time

over the wooden fence. I tend to think of impending migraines as shovels.

Tink tink. The moles weave cursive through the lawn, another task.

I haven’t been this alone since I was married. A stranger rings the bell

with groceries. The century is now. The place is all of us. Wake up or don’t.