Study for Obedience

On our evening walk      there is silence,           then you

with your scarf      wrapped twice, incorrectly      around 

your bobblehead      like it’s the only thing       keeping it

in place. When we see       him dashed       across 

the sidewalk, there’s no      need to scream.      Cold air 

would only fill your      lungs, take language       & turn it

into more      silence. Your presence       makes the dead 

bird deader.      Otherwise, he would      just be asleep.

Sometimes, when it’s      past midnight      & there’s still 

no sign of dreams      upon my pillow,       I imagine 

waking to the sky      some color            other than blue, 

like crimson      or violet, always one      more unlikely

than the next,      though nature,      like everything, is 

a reflection of      the original, true thing:      the moon bright 

because the sun is      bright; a bird’s song      regurgitated 

from its mother      & her mother & so      on for many years

following. More      than repetition, I fear      I’ve inherited 

the belief       that the word ‘dead’ is      just a placeholder 

for some next life      I believe will be better      than this one, 

where you’ve learned      to tie your scarf      tightly round

your throat      so that its skin is not red      when we return 

home, needing      lotion, aloe, rest,      the bitter reminder

that although      you’re not fragile,      you’re certainly not 

strong,       singing someone else’s song      like that,

behind tempo       & a little off-key.

Is Heaven the Only Coordinate?

Today, the tires rattle the sky.
That’s what it feels like, anyhow—heaven accessible
despite distance; an overstock of blue. The container
of the body equally unsheddable, except in fragile dream.
Does everyone fly once their eyes are shut
or do some people choose down; instead the dirt,
the sea? There are benefits to every option. Mine,
for instance, bears clouds you can’t sit on but can
chase which, they say, is the best part of any love
story. Arrival leading to disappointment. As such, a cloud
can’t be your home, nor your bed when you grow
weary. Your mother cannot be your mother, kicking you
out of the home when you need her most, your father
unwilling to listen or buy hearing aids. The TV turned up
to twenty when it ought to be set at two. The same repeated
question. Say this is not the universal problem—indifference
towards progress, though it probably is, even the deer
family returning to the far field no matter the arrival
of black fox or coyote, the sliver of crescent moon enough
to give way to midnight chase, their chosen weeds holding
onto presence for hours after departure. & today the wind carries
with it the neighbor’s driftwood from two doors down. Smoke,
you could call it. Remember a few summers ago, when
a chemical fire in Russia made it all the way to the banks
of Washington? How, even states over, we stood a silhouette
of black backdrop, facing west, worried about the country-
wide effects. Yes, we live on one universe. The left hand
that I hold with my right transcends it.

In the Venn Diagram of Car Accidents & Crushes, You.

My life is a dream you briefly stepped into. By this, I mean things are not perfect but I’d pick them over retirement, over death. Some might find this dramatic, but I did not always feel so sure of my outcomes. When first coming to the town I live in now, I could have counted on fingers how much faith I had to make it through the month, the long year. I spent frugally on groceries, select artisan goods when possible. Walked everywhere; in rain, through windstorm. Sometimes, the wet season lasting weeks. The bikes left leaning against backyard sheds, wired fences, rusted where they stood. Children eventually came back to collect them, creaked their way through town. Two accidents outside the liquor store in the timeframe of a week. Someone hurt; the other, not. Always those who wreak havoc having their way. However, it must be said: that intersection was always a hazard; its lack of proper stoplight or sign. Surrounded by farmland, a canopy of willow where one suddenly finds themselves opening once more into life. My heart was shocked to see it, though it has not the skill of sight. Through the open window at midnight, my light still on, you’ll find me pacing the floors, making calls to the onslaught of wind, the quarter-sized hole in the wall where I’d like one wide-stretched eye to be watching, preferably yours.

Laundry, the Soul, & Other Cyclical Habits

The spirit is tired, is old. Two sparrows
on the wireline outside, letting feet risk

electrocution, death. What does anyone know
of the future or the past? All potential

danger diminished by daylight, a turn
of the clock past four— accidents unbelievable

amidst the mundane. You standing
in the far field, smiling like a fiend.

Precisely when does lust cross over
to love, or is it always the reverse? Tomorrow

I’m expected again in town, mind redacted
by its usual thoughts of collecting money

in exchange for time to spend on the studio
apartment, the laundromat on Seventh—dirty

button-ups churning, then later the butter: yellow
on my afternoon toast. There’s nothing to tell

of my life’s tale & yet here I am writing
it down. The story of a single day

is, of course, that it ends. The frost over
the sweetbriar having settled altogether

too soon. Sometime later this week,
I’d say in a day or so, rain.