Night Bath, Sagittarius
The last line was about
a woman’s memory: The
dog’s clear bark
out the pigskin valve. Swishing in your heart those seven years.
Students in their reasonable moments
hurt my feelings. Not like bawling in the hot tub, staring at my father’s
trees. I can’t stand being there. The blue light of their movie
on the mountain. Flimsy eaves
and troubles. What actually triggers the crying, what’s the cause—their
greenery, Mary’s garage, 21st Century, string of multi-colored
bulbs. They’re angry
and wonder if I contribute something. Like inappropriately yelling
“Bien Fait!” who’s so disgusted with the backyard wedding.
Or “Father Christmas!” to the memory
of living room talent shows. Boyfriend
with flame tattoos on his forearms and free cookies from the cat-lady.
Insanity, as a treatable sadness. Personally, I would cause as much as
while you can.
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