ISSUE: Autumn 1997
Take a look, little god,
at the pecked and smattered
sill above the street
where thin drunkards
wrap their chests
in a vest of old headlines.
The slate ledge tilts
toward the fire escape’s
homemade cross
marking the death
of our super
at the pecked and smattered
sill above the street
where thin drunkards
wrap their chests
in a vest of old headlines.
The slate ledge tilts
toward the fire escape’s
homemade cross
marking the death
of our super
who jumped to end
his unspeakable ache.
Over here, little god,
I point my index finger
toward the screen
and am not met
by the cushioning touch
of a supreme hand
the way the chapel ceiling
shows it.
Pick me up, little god,
not by the scruff
but in the cupping palm.
Trust that I won’t be shunned
by my own kind
after spending a moment
in the air.
Hold me high,
cloaked in a napkin.
Press a bead of water to my lips.
