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.