Tag Archives: death

10 Ways to Destroy the Earth

my mother died in this room
now it is occupied by my nieces
whenever they sleep over
a playroom

i currently occupy it
sleeping on the lower bunk of their little ikea bunk bed
under a disney princess sleeping bag
my eyes fixed on the bunk above
where I keep my guitar
some clothes
some makeup
soap
a sweater
maybe this is where my slow implosion began
maybe this is where it will end
i wonder how?

my mother died in this room
still believing that i was an eldest son
strong and independent
today i am not one of these
today i am her youngest daughter
born posthumously
thereby weak and howling
afraid

in the other room my father watches a show called
“10 Ways to Destroy the Earth”
one of those ways is to be trapped between two black holes
endlessly consumed
attenuated into nothing

Anderson
November, 2015

to own and to be owned

this place will come to own you
it will do so with
a mailbox
a debt
a picnic
a violent act
a bonfire
a hard winter
a gentle spring

you will exist here as a stranger until the year
kevin nods
at the hardware store
kenneth scrapes
the ice from your driveway
william drags
her remains out of traffic

you call the postman
james
at the bank
sarah
calls you by name
not the new name you’ve taken
but the old name your mother called you by
the name on your driver’s license

sharon planted
the black-eyed susans that bloom again and again
christopher planted
the vegetables anew this year
each year he sinks further
into the clay
his metal fasteners rusting
his component parts
spread
across the landscape
by the wind
and the animals

Moores Hill
March, 2014

your waxen figure

when i think of you
i am struck by how little i know about you
not as much as the year before
which was always

how a person can be real
and yet subsumed
collapsing in on themselves
so they become a black hole
containing everything
our petty, childish hopes

i rarely visit your place now
it has no connection to me
like the waxen figure at the funeral
it represents detachment

we could not find your brother
i don’t even know his name
nor the names of your father or mother
when i asked people shrugged

in this way i prove myself your son
carving myself anew
from whatever material
presents itself
like those delicate foam gliders
cut from hamburger trays
that you taught us to make
when we were little

Moores Hill
June, 2014