Forgetfulness 

The camera that photographed the sun 
melted, its last picture is shadowless, 
a wisp of yellow rising from the brighter 
yellow. Everything on earth grows from 
this yellow—like God, look at it & you will
go blind. Maybe the sun is God, if God
is where everything comes from. Some 
mornings still I wake up before dawn 
& just wait for it. I used to wake up with one 
word coming out of me (the word was fuck), 
my eyes not yet open. I had a joke about 
shaking my tiny fist at the sky, yet some 
days still I shook it—happily ever after 
didn’t mean forever. Before the latest surgery 
I asked, What will you give me? Propofol, 
the nurse smiled—the same thing that killed 
Michael Jackson. We both laughed—Nothing 
but the best. The needle inside, three 
lightbulbs over my head, how long before
I’m gone? Roll onto your side, she mur-
mured, then there I was, a black crystal 
spiderweb draping each word. All this 
light, I tried to tell her, comes from the sun.
Did you see the photographs—the camera
melted, yellow, like the skin of a tropical
fruit. The entire plane applauded when
the pilot found the earth again.

Birdland

Life, child, does a number on us,  
& this number opens a door. Birds 
find their way in—birdhouse, doll-
house, dreamhouse—we make 
ourselves small so we can fit in-
side. From the sink I can see that 
spot beyond the tree line where we
bring the bones, far enough from
the house so the rats, always looking,
won’t come close. By morning they 
are gone. Look up, thousands of hungry
shadows, a migration, each having
come a distance we call impossible,
following a river in the sky we call
invisible. They can’t mourn us
the way we mourn them, our palms
pressed together, made of light. Do
they know that everyone they love 
will also die, or do they forget.
The dead, I mean, not the birds.

Baptismal

A spiderweb is not 
a tool

the spider uses to catch 
its prey—it is 

the spider, stretched 
outside itself. How far 

beyond our fingertips 
do our bodies 

extend? What 

is it we are suspended 
over, what 

holds us? Maybe 
we are the reason 

God made other people, 
so we could wait 

together, held.

Anchor 

If you fill your house with water, 
it will, at some point, push all the 
windows out. It will seep through 
the seams, where the door meets 
the frame, then it will open the door. 
From the sidewalk it will look like 
a fountain, the lawn now thick with it, 
the membrane between air & water 
dissolved. Can you imagine what it’s like 
to become all of one thing? That 
tunnel they all talk about, the one 
you enter on your way out, it is 
carved through stone, surrounded 
by water, & the water is leaking in.
Stretch out your hands—it is rushing 
past you, up to your ankles now, it pulls 
you along, it’s going where you are going. 
How long can you hold your breath?