beast: a conversation with Jane
dedicated to Joan, an architect
S. Carlsen
we sat at the Trenton, New Jersey together;
you asking me about how I’ve been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about violins.
You said you didn’t hum it,
and I strained to wobble
why: for Jane, the person of law, the
person whose trash is her temple,
the person who will crumple to the
death. You loved the thought of
houses, the thought of windows, of streets,
of bricks. And I shattered there
in the swimming pool while you shattered
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of troubling more damaged,
golden, more terrifying, more cold,
than sticky grass. You’d want to
fall on them one on one, man to
man, with your toes. And your fingers
lit up. I was beginning to break,
now, only years later. I’ll remember
you with the frozen hat in front of
your steeple, and your love of vaulting.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
Janet Kuypers
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I’ve been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn’t believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You’d want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I’ll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
