we brought home the wrong dying baby

(i)

I ain’t been talked to in so long my wife’s kid thinks I have amnesia.  ain’t been touched since Ohio’s ramshackle symbolism swallowed up some organ donor’s shadow.  I went yesterday to a funeral for a woman’s ear.  told people what I was wearing was a bedsheet belonged to the man in the moon.  told myself I had this microscope could see a ghost and that I’ve only ever lost an empty house.  I don’t know how old I am but I know what year I want it to be.  before dying I saw it flash how I should have died.  low creature.  tugboat.


(ii)

father an optometrist inspecting a replica of a totem pole and mother an eel collapsing at the thought of a play performed in a stone.  

and there, at the bottom of grief, a cup of dirt with nothing to bury.


(iii)

mother is chewing gum like something fell asleep in my mouth.  I say dog for both dog and puppy.  pray for things I know will happen.  a rooster through a windshield.  a dried-up toad in a deep footprint. 

 

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