Monday, October 25, 2010

Postcards to Michael

Postcards to Michael

Dear Michael,
The secret love
only you and I know about
worries me.  It cruises
through Amsterdam’s canals lost;
it’s in the slow demolition
of the ceiling; the naked children
shaking in the morning dew;
whales coming to die in New York City.  
The hunter’s arrow pierces
my most silent sensibility. 
My inconclusive poems
are dying of neglect;
and I have a throbbing
headache.  Please,
come back home
as soon as possible.

I’m tenderly
picking you up
from the floor
like a delicate
putting you
between two sheets
of my favorite
whose pages
I’ll gradually
close and
put away

You’d disappear into a cobweb
and not even my mouth,
        who played
        with your groin
        and your abdomen,
slid down your hair, your neck,
                                            the surface of your skin,
could bring you back.

Michael, your departure
was an unexpected silence
in the middle of Waiting for Godot
that Constant Craving in K. D. Lang’s music
a lecture on God by Nietzsche…
the existential drinking spree in The Metamorphosis
your collection of Jacqueline du Pré records
eating fish and sticks at dawn
                           a warm drunk embrace
                        at the train station on Broad Street

I’ve hacked father to pieces,
although at his age, I could have waited
sat by his side
and answered every question; didn’t need
a stenographer, his actions were drenched
in gold
and I made sure it was polished.
As usual, he had no difficulty
being tempted
by the beauty of my sarcophagus.
There will be no food
or water for his passage.  

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