Nul
for A.H.
i)
nothing stranger than looking through a curtained window
but yours
from where i stand across 23nd street
shuddering in the aubergine glow of dusk
has none
void
charcoal-smothered
like a pit in drooling silence
after the scream of flame subsides
ii)
the heat in my grandmother’s apartment
sputters sporadically
even when it’s been on all day
my mother says not to complain
we won’t be here forever
but i’m not complaining
i’m tacit
remembering how you used to look at me
when i told you out of the blue
not to worry about the sky
falling
we were three
now the sky is debris all around us
around me
my own words ringing sour as prophecy
in my ears
iii)
driving up the i-95
through new england
to tour colleges
a future-lottery
my father told a lie
like a vicious fissure riving solid earth
because somehow we knew
it was not a lie
it was prophecy
my mother got out of the car
and ran all the way to the rest stop
fugitive
but now it’s he who flees
now he steals away
back to a nether of unimagination
don’t you feel like you’re 18 again?
iv)
i’m 18
and i don’t feel like anything but forwards
though i do miss the mornings
when we’d take the M23 to school
our fathers in the row behind us and we’d look out the window craning fragile necks to take in
everything