“In Other Places People Can Communicate Only With Their Eyes”
My father was a left over.
He tangled with the octopus and the ugly breath of the street.
There were Sundays he woke to pleasure and went to sleep.
My mother outlives him by one, two decades.
She dreams of a constellation with her name on it,
Her legs strong, her grip firm, everything a shallow wave.
Once you climb to the top of the hill, you come to a ridge.
You climb that too, and there is another hill.
Off in the distance—
the tree of abandoned nests.
Michael H. Brownstein writes: You’re on the roof of your old house, the roof in serious disrepair, but you walk on it as if you’re on a boardwalk – a squirrel falls through where you just stood – what is left to do but go to all fours, tread carefully until you’re on safe ground, call the roofers (you can’t fix this), and write a poem.