allegiance

flashes—cyan / magenta / yellow

flashes—cyan / magenta / yellow 1. walk into a hospital room and he’s got a phone in one hand, a hand in the air, a blanket across the bag of blood at his waist, fake flowers in a styrofoam cup tipped, lights out, camouflaged cigarette falling from behind nylon petal, close to sunset, curtains drawn, burgundy urine, he’s screaming into the phone. 2. walk into a house where the knickknacks have increased, tv screen cools, phone waiting (always waiting) to ring. kittens born long enough ago to swirl around an electronic mother, her side shaved in a long patch around a knotted scar. father says she must know this is her last litter: this time, she doesn’t ignore them. the monitor cools and cracks. the buzz of china in the cupboard. 3. walk through a door in a dream with a man to find two white lesbians folded over each other in a chair. it’s a house in the northwest. can’t see the dark trees lonely in the backyard. put a hand in the man’s chest to keep him from coming through the door. but the women stay. they don’t acknowledge their visitors. 4. an old neighbor who was young when everyone else was young sits in his window all night. his arms are either muscular or fat. it’s hard to say. when the young boys pull up to the curb in a small black coupe, they dump their white bag of styrofoam garbage in the street, rough and slick with tar and waiting to be paved. he leans out the window and says don’t be leaving shit in front of my house. he can’t see the dark telephone pole alone behind him. the boys in the car stop laughing. they pick up the bag and put it back in the car. 16 5. walk into a chain burger joint and a couple is grey. they hold their ticket in hand and say what’s taking so long to no one in particular. they say they’ve been waiting an hour. someone says the microwave is broke. they say shit, we could have microwaved food at home. 6. walking across the street, the two women in shorts are what we mean by pretty tough. everything shines. the black silk. the patent leather. the brown calves. knees. the plaited hair. the bullseye watching. the tips of cigarettes. the tight skin over shins. the rings through their lobes. 7. walking onto the porch, there is blue glass in the window and a green owl he made when everyone else was young. when kids joined junior achievement and asked bigger people about swimmobiles and sand at the edge of the city airport parking lot. later, he spat on me. 8. it’s been years, in fact—an age. there are women sitting on the front porch in blue metal lawn chairs. they look content. there is a breeze. the windows are down. on the street that is not to be walked down. it’s the house that survived the fires, the stakeouts, the accusations, the bodies. not to be walked down. i want to stop the car and from the curb, say it—jesus, woman. do you know what your sons were? 9. sitting next to the woman who blames the gunshots on how his mother used to talk about him being the product of a gangbang. says giving him her maiden name let the whole world know he was a bastard. that has little to do with it, she replies. children deserve to know the truth. then she adds that she didn’t 17 know his mother had been done like that. the woman says yes, the way she talked about it, everybody knew. 10. from his bed, he jokes with the nurse about taking his pulse but wanting his phone number. he used to be a pimp. he lost money at it. then there was disease. he requests a table near his bedside and the women in the room scurry. it doesn’t matter. it could have been anyone, right? the men carry cell phones. he puts the cradle on the table. mother stands the fake flowers back upright. he makes a request, he’s mumbling. the women scurry. i hate baby talk. 11. my father used to hate him even before it needed gluing. i never told him...