THE JANUARIES                                               

We could blend in—

the ones taken from hanging beds, looked just like us—

the train windows were covered in yellow newspaper,

and we rode secretly through the villages,

where men burned sugar to drive spiders from books,

and aimed victrolas at a north sky.

You said “A certain migraine of white light can steal

                even this life from you. First your money,

                then your clothes. Now let me tell the story…”

I rocked you gently then;

added numerous patches to your chemise.

Our nurse could hold two heads under each armpit.

We sat patiently, waited for our turn to be warmed.

The impulse seemed so plausible,

the curables flinging the twine on their wrists,

catching enough sparrows’ throats to take them

over the barbwire, leaving us to pile their crutches.

“They were like us, but with distinction.

It is really best they go, season’s at its zenith.

No one crushes heads no more, not even to make a wine.”

And we’re just more of that archetype:

tip-toeing ‘round the tin father in the parlor,

so desperate to return to the old house; big tears.

The park a mere contagion of frost and gray light

as we all sat for exams…

The school mascot was the insect that lays

its eggs in ears of unsuspecting martinets,

“Would that we could harness that spirit

beyond ironic ceremony…”

The greenhouse became a fiefdom

so quickly, no one noticed.

Sexual favors exchanged for an ounce

of protection and merchandise.

But whenever man wants he can stick his big fist

in the Oort Cloud, we’ll have comets a plenty then.

“Ah, but which kind of comets?

The largest ones can strafe a downtown,

but there’s no place to show weakness

when its your tail feather that’s a bull’s-eye.”

Once the planetarium catered to the metal crowd,

and these constellations and riffs were ours.

Grandparents were astonished how the war ended.

They were winning, but woulda preferred it otherwise:

“Well…everyone clung to a bildungsroman

so saintly it would stunt your growth.

but there were friends to make, checkers to play.

Barometers were built like chalets

wherein stone children or witches would emerge

to forecast sun or rain, respectively.

A time when magic blended softly with utility.”

No more powderkeg variables in the new order.

Though I have treasured you all,

maybe this’ll be the last time I run

through the fog with you soldiers,

one eye on the hoosegow, one on the champagne.

We were benighted and a little sloppy,

happy to find you under the mirrorball,

porkpie in hand. And that ribbon ‘round your neck,

that for me or to distract the evil eye?

My only trick is stirring loas out of our common bucket,

giving them an acre

                “…and so no one travels that far from us.

                I’ve got ten dollars to share. A strip poker rash,

                you have one too-

                for we are all one here, each snatched back from the wind.”

I won’t be above such things in the coming year,

when we become like stones for the bicycles to leap.

The moon over those houses is so much older,

But the time’ll come when you’re gonna need

a man with a good candle in his skull