My kidneys are growing stems and plants and roots, and
yours Basquiat? For Easter, they desire fruit buns shaped
like the sun, or, ripe green figs that burst open like a rose.
Dante’s axons look like figs. Axons will promise you a great
prosperity. They are Jerusalem. Her hair, sibling’s mane
smells like peaches. She tastes like whiskey. The distance
is stale, the clouds appear, then vanish in slivers of rain-
fish in the underpass. Outrun, outrun the nightfall to the
dawn. Watch every consequence. Wash the glasses, fill it
with tired aching beer. Sticky bees filled with pollen fill in
my head. They look for protectors. Those drones. People
are talking. Let them talk. Throw a cloak over mother,
father’s darling. The dog drinks barley water, grows fat
on it. Eats rivulets of chicken, grows fat on it. Goes to town
on it. Sibling, your German tongue is strangely silent. All
you want to do is talk about your boyfriend, and art. High
art. This weight. This weight. I cannot carry anymore. So,
the shipping news comes late at night, when the fishermen
come home with their catch. I try and pretend a little to
myself that you love me. All you want to be is where the
boys are. You want to dance with them, drink with them
in bars filled with old books, and an aquarium. There is
something about the dream of Europe, and you sleeping
there. You’re still eating pasta though warmed through
in a pan, but now you can boast that I’m obsessed with your
eating habits, and the pasta is made by your boyfriend. We’re
eating a lentil curry made by mother’s hands. The owl has a
heritage here. Symbol of wisdom. The professor is dead, and
it is strangely quiet around here without him around. His
giraffe language is the language and song of the wisest ones,
the owls, and I told myself to write about life before I grow
old, too weary. Before I begin to forget. People leave all the
time. They have places to go. The sky is dark. I stay put.
The ache in my heart a zen diary easing the light into a crack.
I cannot seem to find the spool of cotton and needle after all.
Cannot sew this wretched button onto this dress. It is missing.
The most I know is acting all wrong. All disgruntled for
millennia. I don’t feel anything anymore. See the dove, but
does it have a voice, I find it in the palms of my hands resting
there beautifully. I think it is breaking my heart. The song
of the day is breaking my heart. The Czech sister isn’t here
anymore. She made everything alright before. This winter bird,
wants to fly away to the Czech sister’s side, but she’s scared
as hell. She is waiting for the lake of fire’s surface to freeze over.
For it to be as smooth as a glacier. As a sea wall. I shouldn’t
have waited so long for happiness. The day is a wonderland.
The sky is sad. I don’t watch family dramas anymore. They do
remind me so of home. It is not a lovely part of the world there.
Perhaps the people in it. The sum of their parts. The sun that
inhabits their world. Am I going, am I going, is all he said,
is all he had to say. He looked so brave as I kissed his cheek.
Said goodbye for another week. See you soon, I smiled. I smiled.
Just another lonely day to look forward to. To remind me of
the choice I made. I can’t forget. I can’t seem to quite forget. Can’t
find the car keys. Can’t find where. Just angels everywhere.
In the clouds. In the clouds. In the clouds. And as the rain falls,
they vanish into the air, heirs. Wish you were here, Czech
sister, instead of living in this harsh declining winter filled
with bots and their bot limbs and robotics analytical language.
