At the End of the Endless Decade

For years had anyone needed me

to spell the word commiserate

I’d have disappointed them. I envy

people who are more excited

by etymology than I am, but not

the ones who can explain how

music works—I wonder whether

the critic who wrote

that the Cocteau Twins were the voice

of god still believes it. Why not,

what else would god sound like.

Even though I know better, when I see

the word misericordia I still think

suffering, not forgiveness;

when we commiserate we are united

not in mercy but in misery,

so let’s go ahead and call this abscess

of history the Great Commiseration.

The difference

between affliction and affection

is a flick, a lick—but check

again, what lurks in the letters

is “lie,” and what kind of luck

is that. As the years pile up

our friends become more vocal

about their various damages:

Won’t you let me monetize

your affliction, says my friend

the corporation. When I try to enter

the name of any city

it autocorrects to Forever:

I’m spending a week in Forever,

Forever was hotter than ever

this year, Forever’s expensive

but oh the museums,

and all of its misery’s ours.