The white bowls in the orderly cupboards filled with nothing. The sound of applause in running water. All those who've drowned in oceans, all who've drowned in pools, in ponds, the small family together in the car hit head on. The pantry full of lilies, the lobsters scratching to get out of the pot, and God being pulled across the heavens in a burning car. The recipes like confessions. The confessions like songs. The sun. The bomb. The white bowls in the orderly cupboards filled with blood. I wanted something simple, and domestic. A kitchen song. They were just driving along. Dad turned the radio off, and Mom turned it back on.
Recall the Carousel
Recall the carousel. Its round and round.
Its pink lights blinking off and on.
The children’s faces painted garish colors against
an institutional wall. And the genetics. The
We won’t be here too long ... Do not step off ...
The carousel? Do you recall? As if
we were our own young parents suffering again
after so many hundreds of hours of bliss.
And even the startling fact that
what had always been feared might come to pass:
A familiar sweater in a garbage can.
A surgeon bent over our baby, wearing a mask.
But surely you recall
how happily and for how long
we watched our pretty hostages go round.
They waved at us too many times to count.
Their dancing foals. Their lacquered mares. Even
a blue-eyed hunting hound
was still allowed back then.