and whenever I see one hung for decoration,
I’m almost certain that this is what Caillebotte
had in mind when he broke out the oils
in 1884: some twenty-first-century bitch in Boston
catching a glimpse of a framed reproduction,
recollecting a study about how washing oneself may induce
a sense of culpability. What I remember
is he insisted I clean before leaving. That, and he was
trying to be dreamlike. He took my jaw in his hand
and said IN THE NEXT LIFE, WE’LL REALLY BE TOGETHER,
and the clamp in his voice made me almost
certain he knew something I did not. Now I eat right,
train hard, get my shots. This life—I’m angling
to remain in this life as long as I can, being almost
certain, as I am, what’s after—
I do not like money, neither for itselfnor for what it can buy, as I wantnothing we know about.
René Magritte
My Hair Is My Thing
The symphony’s out of funding again, and no
wonder: all those violins, the twisted strands
and sponges—who could not think
of torture? Last week I read a novel about a man
so awful that when he died I wept
because it was fiction. I wanted it to be real
so I could watch him really die.
I wanted you to die also, and to be feted
with a lengthy, organza-filled funeral,
so that I could make a big show
of blowing it off. I decided to go out
and get a tattoo of your funeral with me not there,
but apparently it’s illegal here to tattoo
a person who’s crying. The trend now
is to be interred with beloved possessions:
pearl-trimmed gun, gold watch,
whatever you’ve got. Some people recoil
at the waste of it, but not me. These contused little
objects of wealth—they’re disgusting. I just
pray we have earth and shovels enough. I pray
we have bodies enough to bury them all.
The Suggested Face for Sorry
You and me—we are the opposite
of twins in an old story.
When I am in pain, you don’t feel it.
If I up and retch, you never guess.
The city laid out poison
along the tunnels and tracks, meant
for rats, and one day my dog ate some.
She was fine. I’ve never been
so jealous in my life. I want to do
the things we do to die,
and then just take off sprinting
in the steep ravine. In my dream,
I walk my dog and you cross
our path and she torques at you
and rears and snaps. She senses
you are wholly bad. They say animals
can tell, like with earthquakes.
You’re supposed to scan the classifieds,
searching for a sudden spike
in the number of missing pets. That’s
how you know to prepare. Maneuver
away from shelving. Crawl
to the nearest doorframe. Get out
of California. What are you waiting for.
Lying Is Getting
to me. The high-ups instructed me not to tell their dad
about the particulates—the last
time he caught them polluting, he made them sit
themselves down right there and eat a whole smokestack.
I keep nodding when the city insists I stick
with the story of accidents—she was cleaning
her gun, he was cleaning the recessed
sign on the front of the passenger train, they were holding
hands and had a whole plan to clean
the concrete twenty-two stories below the ledge
of the mixed-use downtown
tower. To really make it shine. The party line
is getting me good. I keep turning
my face to the flashbulb in an effort to seem like someone
with no secrets, and now when I see other people
framed and beaming, I want to know what they’re keeping
in. All those holiday moments, tacked
to the fridge or strung up with wire and eyelets. All that sin—
Five by Seven
Really, when people have photographs of themselves
displayed on their walls, I just assume
they have died and it is their ghosts
who’ve invited me over, their ghosts with whom
I’m sharing a meal, making small
talk about all the bodies and trash on Mount Everest.
Oh lacquered ghosts, so high on your own
finished triptych of fetes
and feats and the corresponding assurance
you go unforgotten—let’s
go out. From the recent restaurant
boom, infer a citywide uptick in rage-ravaged homes.
People want new spots to fight, to squall
and snipe, lose their appetites, be brought
the chalkboard special, not touch it,
see it whisked to the kitchen and scraped
out back for a dog to eat, but that’s cool—dogs
have to eat, too—
California
We often ate late by flameless
candles and took turns choosing
how best to be disposed of.
I want to be buried. I want everyone
to be buried. I realize there’s scarcely
a