By | 16 August 2019

in the space between light and the sea
glitters a thick emptiness,
the infection of clouds and blood.
leonard cohen died yesterday,
and my mother’s boyfriend,
a gentle alcoholic, fell asleep in his car
outside our house. i think he has parkinson’s,
she said, lifting the blinds
like she was waiting for a prom date,
a corsage, untailored suit. because
of all the shaking
. he told me he wanted
to marry her and shattered his beer on our floor.
for weeks we found stray glass glinting on the rug,
and woke with his words cut into our feet.

it makes me think of the music teacher
i was in love with at thirteen, the one
who slid his hand up my skirt. five years later
and middle c sounds like panic;
hot edge of acoustic pedals, the distant swell
of saint-saens and hangnails.

look at the moon, lonelier than it will ever be
again. a dirty opal over the city, sky impaled
upon rooftops. dozens of us gazing upwards,
like a shoal of whitefish over bleached coral,
faces scoured in gold glass and silence.
we expect everything and find only echoes.

a drunk, soft head weighted
against the steering wheel,
mr goosen offering me a chocolate bar
for being such a good student. there is a sense
of geometry; there is a ratio to all this violence.
it waxes and wanes, follows us through tide,
through love, through music.

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