Remember,
remember that a thought can never die.
The neurons that fired while it was made
will scatter into ether,
they will fade and piece the message together
elsewhere.
Nothing will be revealed until it breaks, so here
we have the real start- iridescent wings
drowning, shimmering in waves
that make a glittering
nothing-
a splash, and nobody hears.
Thoughts spiralling in and out, weaving through
the retina, a cocoon that curls in the brain,
an agent of change.
I shed myself kaleidoscopic.
I dig in my heels and I will not flicker out.
Dinner Table
In the new and unsettled heat of city summer
you, my darling darling, are like a ghost
seeking communion, with unfinished business
and wearing a crown that you made of daisies
because you do not want to admit that you are
in love with those stories, and with learning
to lose yourself in the guises of knights, and
someone else's love. It's about learning that
and learning to swallow. My darling,
don't be precious, your God isn't really in
the food that you eat or whatever you drink
but you are so, so good at pretending, and
when you shut your eyes at night you see
a dining table with three chairs, but one of them
is broken. Mother sits in one, you take the other
and your sister, you think, maybe, sits in the
last one. She is like looking in a mirror, but
you are wiser. Still, the chairs at the table
are broken, and no matter how loudly the talk
rackets between the walls and paintings, you can
never fix the chair with the broken legs. You don't
even want to anymore.
