The Only Thing That Matters

The Only Thing That Matters

The Only Thing That Matters 21 Poised at the underworld’s gate tanks assemble as consequences —the devil’s due tomorrow. His skull shakes in wind with toys for the kids all in a clatter. At Florida Street Park the mothers wait at rough oak tables. The day has become like gold less rigid, as compassion is— a requirement, the only thing that matters. 22 What next, says the ex-primate breathing smoke in my face. Wanna make a baby? Like a sculpture soldered to grass bent from experience and weight of sky. I worry. Salt from lids funnels down my face along with water. This motion makes the heart ponder. Can we? Do that? 23 Out in the yard kids dare each other to perform acts of insanity— fall backwards without watching say a bad word to Sister skip school or be static forever like a statue of St. Francis it takes a strong will to fly in the face of material limitations. Follow the host I’m told. At least you’ll feel safe. 24 Nothingness is in the air. The wool has been pulled over our times. Secret sights aren’t safe anymore in history’s vacuum where what you see is what you get what’s missing is this—lilacs and a storm. 25 Anonymity is a curse when you’re cordoned on a map that’s been cut to the size of a wound. Four walls and a memory four walls—and the Jordan. Our friends have gone crazy just trying to breathe learning to kiss the floor of a prison and our child—Ahlam— dreams of freedom in a state of emergency, the latest daisy in a long long chain. 26 Freedom’s not variable, it’s animal and unbelievable a serpent in a trellis signals danger or grace— if you have the will to slip past the surface. You’ve long been a broken vessel of loss— but are learning now the joy of verbs: Revolt. Run. Cross Shake. Escape. 27 You think of your self as solitary—some windblown character a blue shadow etched on the border of god’s book. And it helps you to breathe see roses and stay safe from America. 28 Some mystery each day keeps the word impossible and brings the real to its knees, hungry and crowing for any crumb of comfort. An arrow hums once and falls into the wild pulse of its only victim. 29 Suddenly solo ideology weeping exactly where I left it because of the economy and the baby and our nowhere friendship folded up with wool clothes. When the weather clears our sad surroundings become a paradise of daffodil sighs damp spackled highrise robin redbreast no limit on interpretations like children with access to invisible places. 30 Snowed. Snow. Snowflakes. Florida—a state. A street. A poem. Wasn’t that you in the green neon of the city, sprung and running? O lonely race. And didn’t I see you praying for your people for a victory—for once? A notch to check a cornerstone a reason to work, have children a reason to let your guard down just once. But I was too scared to stop you, mid-moon mid-wound, midsnow flakes, wars—each one different from the next. 31 Look at this poor house inside—a zoo of details—polka dots, motion an excess of windows. Each one looks out on the same unfinished patio— autumn weeds, rain. Wind rushes between walls of our failure to change or draw near to mystery and this little girl— a beautiful wind between walls. ...