Postcards to Michael

Postcards to Michael

i.

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.

ii.

I’m tenderly

picking you up

from the floor

like a delicate

feather,

putting you

between two sheets

of my favorite

book,

whose pages

I’ll gradually

close and

put away

forever.

iii.

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.

iv.

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

v.

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.