We
die early, staring at parents, a reflection of a mirror
—so
we can’t escape.
We
see pain, a river in a background, where father
gambles;
and moreover, mother cries, resistant to
healing.
Daughters mourn, an inward scorn, and partly
torn.
“How can I help?”—a known inflection, where
bones
shiver.
I
heard it live, a vest of woes, a devil grinning. We
imagine
love, a foreign concept, a need for texture.
“Young
man. Do you run the house.” “Yes he does.”
(A
breath of laughter.)
I
venture for death, a life of silence, glaring at addiction.
“I
said so.” This is more for reason than reason.
I
dreamt to sky-scrape, late for homeroom, a pencil
and
pad. My love, a fuchsia rainbow, as broken as
heartbeats;
and both a sullen pair, nibbling plums, adrift
silken
dung. What of love, a plate of shrimps, and white
rice;
and what of scars, a secret feeling, an intimate
chain.
I sought for home, to thresh a cycle, as clear as
a
mudslide. I saw her speak, and felt her smile, a ghost
to
love. I fall a fever, to feel it beat, as frantic as wild
geese.
How for life, to shelter madness, three miles of
fear?
We died, a daily death, ever to puff a season. I
couldn’t
see, for mother’s eyes, lost in sex and anger.
I
see her, to slam a needle, found through liquor. I hear
her,
to cry a fountain, lost in pain. We need for peace,
a
silent meadow, free of nicotine.
They
fall is waves, a cave of death, frantic about a grave.
It
was us, knee high in cedar, plus, a pack of New Ports.
Oh
God, we rapture gray, to puff and pull; and what for
love,
a cap and coat, and vision for a picture. We lived it,
semi-distorted,
for right was wrong. I drift a portrait,
and
quasi-gone, starring at an image.
