I always feared that one day 
the laughs would simply end - 
each of my lines  
falling to earth,

I don’t want to see the mechanics, 
the plastic, special effects. Back then it was  
magic, heroics. We would never have known  
we now have phones that choose our own  
adventures, that whole hours can pass without us 
looking up from them.

two indigo globes near death 
or extinction, swathed amid  

the vacant sclera 
the back of his knuckle  

faint against my lids.

But I have done so much in the name of faith I knew was wrong. Mary’s  
grandmother delivered the sermon each Sunday but had no divine claim.  

To keep the women of the family at the helm, she wrote in her will  
Mary was to wed to her husband. Women have little claim in most holy spaces.  

So I turned up the volume. In a quick Google search, I found Gourdet’s new
cookbook. On the front cover, he’s wearing a thin gray t-shirt and sweatpants: an
outfit of morning routines, of fitful sleep with the smell of garlic under nails.

I believe in the collective gasp  
when Dorothy’s black and white world shifts to Technicolor, 

I believe Lassie and Rin Tin Tin would have created a 
magnificent litter of superhero puppies.  

We’ll watch them crack open her pine box,  
douse her bones with salt and kerosene.  
Sam will look sad and say something gracious;  
Dean will say he likes her style, but it’s time to ramble on.  
I’ll say I’m sorry a man made her a wife and mother before her thirteenth birthday,  
that I hope heaven is real because she deserves peace.   

I know I should read a book, but these days, I’m just too tired. I watch SVU in the bath instead. Benson and Stabler were dealing with murdered children in the basement of a church, and Stabler wasn’t doing well because one of the children wore the same pajamas as his son. Elliott Stabler looks tough with his thick neck and feral eyes, but he hasn’t yet lost his faith. I had to ask.

and it’s clear that now  
there are no guilty pleasures, 
only pleasures, 
only each of us 
doing whatever we can 
to manage each and every day. 

Hey Mom, so you know the Grave Digger, right? 
So… I just went to the funeral of the dude who drove it 
& they put his ashes in his monster truck, revved the engine, 
& all the ashes went into the sky.   
It was fucking awesome. lol 

I think about pressing my fingers into his sides, sliding through the slates of his ribs, and tugging out his heart. I would hold the muscle in my hand and watch it breathe like a small rabbit in its hutch. He is a blooming flower in my palm, my fingers cupped like fronds casting shadows.

And Macaulay Culkin is alive, but he’s ten
forever, red sweater and toy rifle strap. I am 41.
No one tells me they can’t believe I’m 41. They can.

my father was a Red Sox fan
so I didn’t know basketball
never held one until sixth grade
never appreciated the rhythm
of the game the way it moves
like a sonnet from side to side

I was so broke I even had to borrow  
Buster’s gun to do this. So here I am 
in a Santa Monica restaurant bathroom  
having run out of gags, routines, sorrow 

I hallucinate about how I could destroy their lives. 
Like a wasp, I’ll sting them, 
And let the boil fester for days. 
 I’d pick one with an allergy 
In hopes that my poison corrupts them.   

whoever it is               they'll be        blaring “Chorus”
Vince Clarke’s synth    summer 91’s              CD101 soundtrack     
it will be driving you              moving you
toward the future

I was clueless, wandering like teens do, 19 and stuck in between, not child, not ripe, an unfolding libertine.  When Streets of Fire debuted the next year, I saw it here too, and was sure you shared my obsessions with Springsteen, Morrison, too, holding shadows of both in your shaman walk and Seventeen-approved hair. I guess two years on top are more than most get.

Apollo’s there 
battling the serpent in silence, 
scorpions crushed beneath 
his sandaled feet.  

Writhing coils 
strain against corded flesh 
of the sun god at night.  

Maybe something in my childhood, my white-knuckled temper, or my red-cheeked shame. Too many ladoos, not enough purple foods. Was it the pressures of architecture school, glue-gummy fingers holding balsa wood together until the garbage trucks crowed at dawn.

I know Emily is in  

the fountain  
in the courtyard, tensed 
with joy, kicking  

at the goldenrod 
that replaced my longing