Over a plate of spaghetti
an elderly man marvels at the many paths his pasta takes
until those paths converge
into a knot in his throat;
a woman gains intimate knowledge
of a Honda Passport’s grillwork
in the crosswalk at 4th and Lexington;
in Ensenada, whole branches of family trees wither
under an onslaught of bandits.
What’s to be made of all these endings?
This morning, when I woke for work, it was still
as dark as when I went to bed. On the drive
through Sepulveda Pass, I realized stars were nothing
but pale buttons on God’s black shirt.
I want to press my ear to his celestial chest
and hear a heartbeat. I’d settle for wind
from the other side if it came with a guarantee
of at least weather for when I get there. I won’t need much.
Just a dim light
to read by, a pack of cigarettes to share with friends,
maybe a little Dr. Pepper. And if it’s true what they say
about endless day, I won’t even need the light,
just a bulbless lamp until I get used to the change.
In the small constellation of my heart, I know
whenever I lift a blade here, another falls elsewhere.
When I get off the couch, another person,
perhaps two blocks away, is dropping
the remote and before his eyes life flashes
in a swarm of pixels. This is Death: The Movie.
I doubt there’ll be time for every memory
before the folks at Eternity International
end it all, but count on seeing the chapped lips
of your first kiss, your child’s fingerprints,
your spouse’s eyes
replayed in stunning technicolor
so you’ll know exactly what you’re losing.
Outside, summer has passed
the baton to fall. The oaks lining Canterbury Drive
dress out in gold and rust.
Is there a formula to calculate the body’s capacity
for treachery? Diabetes took Mom so fast
I didn’t know if I mourned her dying
or living; mourned everything I knew
about her or all I will never.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
