Containts two twelve packs of Fanta,
exploded from the cold.
A folder of notes from job interviews. Three
pairs of black high heels and my second
favorite mini-skirt. One hundred and forty
pounds of sand. My sleeping bag and camping chair.
A bag of rice and beans tucked inside a cast-iron skillet.
Old term papers and scratched CDs. A make-up bag.
File boxes from Office Max. Three Frisbees and
a pair of snowshoes. Somewhere near the bottom
half of a torn photograph. Me, in a tank top and skirt,
smiling, with a strong arm around my shoulders.
exploded from the cold.
A folder of notes from job interviews. Three
pairs of black high heels and my second
favorite mini-skirt. One hundred and forty
pounds of sand. My sleeping bag and camping chair.
A bag of rice and beans tucked inside a cast-iron skillet.
Old term papers and scratched CDs. A make-up bag.
File boxes from Office Max. Three Frisbees and
a pair of snowshoes. Somewhere near the bottom
half of a torn photograph. Me, in a tank top and skirt,
smiling, with a strong arm around my shoulders.
* * *
The Sighs One Hears In Early Morning
After Jay Hopler
After Jay Hopler
The Honorable Miss Brogan
It’s almost three
And the moon now drifting through the sky is
Like the hum one hears in distant music: familiar
And strange and wonderful—
❦
Being alive is a gift—
But it’s not so grand, as presents go. It’s the only one
We will ever be forced to return.
Who’s to say how long this smudge of ash will keep?
❦
The hovering silver body has changed to gold.
The music—no, the space is dissonant.
❦
That’s me, the voice whispering in the garden with a quiet rhythm
And melody; nearer, my father’s footsteps,
Ca-lunk ca-lunk on a heavily-worn path of clay
And stone, what might have been youth once.
The wind is taking up. Mother has written TIME
In the trail’s scattered dirt.
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