your parents car broke down on the highway yesterday, we heard it second hand
then we almost went to bed nobody had spoken to them
since before the tow came
we did the math in our heads just as we were about to call it a night with bile rising in our throats not wanting to say one thing or another before
Anything, nothing, and your dad called.
This was the reality, we breathed, where our parents still came home safe, where our siblings
Broke backs and burst raspberries
My dad was sleeping off a wine dinner in Bordeaux when Nice happened, then again in Villejuif during Paris (the first one).
This time, your dad,
Next time, someone else’s dad, god fucking damn it,
Our terrible dads are too purely singular to die.
It’s his sixtieth soon, I ought
To do something
Even though what I wanted was a poem that would make him cry
when i tried to find the human in her tiger,
Where we all ended up dead but okay.
I can’t believe he wrote me that poem. I wonder if it’s any consolation knowing that if he’s anything like me he also has his secretly festering ones like these, and the ones he shows to the people he loves to tell them that he loves them in a series of analogies and brief fragments.
Castilloniae, parent and pups,
As the plant steps out,
Tentatively, its branches
Christ that’s cheesy as fuck, Christ, there’s no elegance to what I do any more, knowing that there’s no real finesse left in anything anymore, is there?