on fathers & swords

in the beginning was the gold rush. a time to strip sunlight from our temples.
suffering & its technology summoned a feeling. for the sake of resemblance & record,
yes, i was sick with consumption. paratactic again. made without worry as the water
(always the water) curdled. rose like a myth. as all is said was done. underneath
anesthetics, ordinary clamor, who will translate: reader, i opened onto his fist &
therein was the poem. my confessional self. ran through, rendered f/or rent. another
music could should accommodate me, meanwhile.

radiant with need, i watch the men—Kendall, Marty, Don—manifest then sob in the
sand. what was done as done. an industry of inertia in their shoulder blades. let me tell
you as i was told: days call for a citizen, darling. of emaciated retinas, a soft sight.
imperial optimism—chic. had i known what quotidian would cost. would i lie first.
wrench cardamom from between my teeth. amble towards intention. what kind of
denial could i be a wife to. allow to hound the seams. because, after it was taken i gave
it away. an urge to repeat oneself remains.