An Autopsy of an Era (audio only)
Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.
is saying, someday this day will be over.
A moon will presumably still be above:
a bone quiet, an inflatable in the scene
—the cool blue swimming pool
it finds itself in. And I will want to be.
My mother, the Queen, will want only
when the pink sliver of sky swims in
through the window and you hear
the high notes from the opera singer
one story below. Angel of wishing,
angel of fortune, the cart overturned,
the small animals from the back
of the truck flooding the highway.
In my numb mind, a little leather jacket,
the sleeve no bigger than a thumb drive.
In that diminished instance,
I light a cigarette. I put on lipstick.
I’m a version of a self. I speak the truth.
As if speaking French. Haltingly.
Fast forward and it’s me asking air
to save me from the synaptic patterns
that dictate who I am alongside what I do