There we were, walking the line along

death’s precipice, mother trying on hats

in heaven’s department store.

Across the street, whores whistled

bitter schlaffmusik to lull the actuaries

into hypnotic grief. We tried

calling home but the telephone wires

had been ripped out by raccoons

or the government. I held the last

dime in my sweaty palm. Father had

a way with words, commanded them

stand tall as corn in August.

Since he’s gone there’s been a loud

silence, the hum of climate control

shifting the direction of my thoughts.

Bread refuses to rise even when

I strum the national anthem

along my pelvis. Always there,

always forgotten, my coccyx

connects me to what we always were.

*

Maybe it’s the rain or the spring

in the heel of my shoe or the cicada’s

shed overcoat alone on a lawn chair,

but something’s been telling me,

whispering in my ear, dance, or maybe

it’s once, or maybe dunce. Fire’s music

whorls through the wild conifers,

spreading the latest conspiracy

darkening the dark web.

How much of the soul is metaphor?

Someone said, you can’t overestimate

the body’s desire for eternity.

A baby’s finger clenches like its pulling

a trigger. Is its first instinct to kill?

I turn away in disbelief.

Chatter like fat in a flame.

*

Corpses burst out of their wooden pods

claw their way to the surface,

and forage the forest floors for guns.

I hide among the leaves and needles,

dreaming of another kingdom, another time.

Is this what trauma does? A bed might be

a bomb, a bomb might be a bed,

or maybe just a briefcase left innocently

by the embassy door. I have so many keys,

I can’t remember what they’re for.

The dead sit hunched, nodding in agreement,

emptying their pockets, dragonflies drying

transparent wings on their naked skulls.

One pulls a bullet from his temple, sets

it down on a stump with a little tap.

There’s always an eighty-four percent chance

of winning Russian roulette

for whoever goes first.

*

The crowd celebrates the return of

the father. Kismet, they say. Savior,

they whisper. Messiah, they think.

Each hair on my head extends its

root down into my brain where the masses

gather, staring in wonder at the dome of sky.

Mother holds a box of sea salt. Kosher,

of course. That’s the spirit! Spiritus mundi?

Make like a rabbit and burrow deep,

she says. I dig up their graves but find

only empty orange shells.

A jet plane stitches the sky closed.

I throw another stick in the fire.

Father says, stop crying

and smile for the camera.

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