Each morning he fills your frame
Lip of the plastic jug gushing,
reprieve pouring into you from a trembling hand
And you, always singing from the cupboard
Benjamin- Writing to you is such a privilege. To be able to create you into fiction
Create our 2.5 perfect children,
The hardwood floor,
Bones are beginning to show again
Should I applaud you — should I cry?
An age old question
The thunder — your “medication”
Sailing through veins like gondola
I tear through jewelry box after jewelry box
…I can’t find it…
my engagement ring
I have never lost anything like this before
Now I write to you as I write to the dead
Thinking of your hands,
praying they put down the gun
I pray the October air is too cold for your hands to tie knots
Fall escapes the record player’s scratching needle.
Outside, leaves shatter under playful footsteps
and wind chimes clang,
unable to penetrate
One house over the apple pie is done cooking,
The mice in the kitchen, that I can’t find, keep eating all the bird food.
I accidently drink gasoline because I am distracted by the turds on the counter.
Since the beginning of oceans you have been there,