About the Dead: Poems

Box

[33] B OX Olive pit, cheese cube, salt on a blanket. i opened the wine, cranked the box, and you fumbled out on a spring, one breast larger than a Japanese pear, a cannonball for sky. Oligarchies, you said, pointing to Orion’s belt, require a tremendous amount of faith from us plebeians in order to function. Meteors started blackjacking over the horse farm—six years old again, baby tooth dangling from its nerve. i worked it all day like a porch swing, finally broke down and told my mother. She plucked it on the count of three. i don’t know why i thought of that. If God has such big plans for us all, why keep them buried in a fish tank treasure chest? Why not hand them out in the soup-lines, you said. i didn’t know. i listened to peepers, a horse creeping up to the fencepost. I guess I’m just not very sentimental, i said. ...