I feel it was meant, the curse of the elephant, to
wonder where mother was born. I feel it was destiny, an ear to pavement, a room
haunted by molestation. I fret it was in vain, another wake, another warrior to
the afterworld. I was sick those nights, sweating out vomit, edging into
memories; and spirit came, and spirit went, the majesty of the loss. If to win,
like a president, so many miles to the right church. I feel it was deliberate, I
feel like a specimen, it gets to its fences; and the gatekeeper, on memory, to
swoop two minutes too late. I fret its madness, the swoosh, not necessarily a
good feature. I have a rash, I keep scratching, it only grows worse. I feel
like knowing you would have been glory; to speak biblically, to die once again.
I heard father was a roller, a dream, to play piano, to pluck violin. And
loving you was wrong, a sad song, a waning in its waxing.
