Mother’s Day
My son lies on his back beneath a bed of stars. My mother
purchased the stars for him. He has learned how
to switch the star machine on and off at bedtime, night-night
as we’ve named it. I sing him a song about sunshine. I sing him
a song about starlight. He points into the darkness
and says my newest name. Once,
as a child, I fell from a great height. My body
was a plane hurtling through the night. How do they phrase
sky death? 244 souls lost. My son’s fingers are harp strings
over which I run my hands. I sing from the place in my skull
that was spared. Our bones are both visible
and invisible, like stars in daylight. Though I recovered
from my fall, my mother never did. My son’s
gray pajamas are painted with blue planets.
His cheeks are still pink from the afternoon sun.
Selling Sunset
These walls are made of kitten fur.
Every time you take a bath, the moon sinks in the pink sink.
Don’t let the faucet water touch any exposed skin.
Warren G. Harding drooled, napped, and died in this bed.
There was basically no blood.
When the lighthouse blinks on, you can see the ships lost at sea.
That spot on the water you can’t look away from?
She drowned while her husband watched.
Down this flight here, we have a solarium that doubles as obelisk.
The attire is midnight snack.
The cuisine is a jar of maraschino cherries but you only eat the syrup that suspends them.
These mossy breadcrumbs chart a path to the private beach.
We’ve kept the tide static for you.
It sounds almost like birdsong but we haven’t determined who’s singing.
Morning isn’t coming.
Your heart will never recover.
