7:14 AM
Vermillion moon last night
and this morning,
a two-knuckle wasp on the river-raft
batting her wings.
Idle and restless,
I fall ill to political defeatism and misguided scorn.
On the porch — mulberry jam from the neighbor
and a salacious soft-boiled egg
coating teeth warm yellow.
The president was shot while we watched Death in Venice,
Aschenbach opening his palms to a barbaric sunrise.
and who am I to criticize?
who am I to condemn?
“Complacencies of the peignoir” I think, and then
“Fuck you!”
Phragmite along the Hudson, and I’m sweating like a horse.
and Monday at Midnight: the baby blue bathtub mother mary shrine
flickering with heat lightning in a wet wind.
I pace the attic — sullen ghost girl.
The bullfrog out the window says something
about every choice being a loss
or was it about the fall of an empire? or,
astute: ribbit, ribbit, ribbit.
I pace the attic,
shame like kudzu tight in the throat.
Mémé teaches me to puncture the shell
with a dutch gadget to ease
pressure so the egg won’t explode in boiling water.
It makes a soft hiss like a shy orgasm
like the crunch of roadkill.
