Diary: Leafed Through with Mirrors

Summer

Summer

A fisherman’s line strangled a
sparrow and a book on motorcycle
maintenance.

You thought heaven thought
you, the chosen one, granted straight
teeth and a smile to run the world
over. They’d find molars in the glitter
or guillotine.

I watch spinning while you double dutch.
Tan lines leap out — light
writing on neon-seared
polaroid skin.

You wrote a symphony with plastic
spoons. How did you do that?
Midway through Mountain King
the shaft snapped and
silence fell like a masterpiece.
The coffee percolator applauded
in the end. That day eggs were
better without bloodstains.

Fall

Road Trip — California
mother, father, sister,
second cousin. She showed up
on a doorstep with karma thick
as Southern air. Your
mother’s, father’s, sister’s
daughter — she says it
lingers.

Somewhere down the line
someone left a porch light on. A dog
went up in flames and reunions were
an occasion for your mother to miss.
That and church Sundays. Just sleep a
little longer, darling — on your knees
for sacrament.

Winter

Well we
began stronger than
we finished. You’d dotted
your book with love signs and
new sounds.

Creaking,
crawling out of
sync. Mother? Father?
Mountain King? You
thought because of light licking you
lightly you’d been heaven sent, but I
should have remembered. Someone
left their lights on.

Spring

[chorus]