a quick scrape of nails on sidewalk
C’mon old lady, pick those back legs up
fear in my voice as I say it
after weeks of walking in circles around the neighborhood
it’s come to me we’re training
the weight of my grief equal to the food we’ll stuff in
our packs
say farewell to the flattened pigeon
put your paw on my thigh while I drive
I’ll blow the cigarette smoke away from your face
come, despite that it’s summer and your back legs are weak
we’ll go all the way to the cliff edge
I promise to stay close, my hands on your hips to steady you
let’s go to a cave big enough to dump this sorrow
Part Three
The Summer of Dead Birds
I.
it’s the end of May and the sky is filled
with birds being little whores
dipping and weaving across the freeway
following each other recklessly
out of the bushes and into oncoming traffic
this is the kind of courtship I understand
one lover throwing themself in front of a car
every four seconds in order to seduce the other
every time a bird nearly misses my windshield, I gasp
after the fourth bird I give up worrying,
light a cigarette, and propose a toast
Here’s to being little whores, I say
II.
once a bird dipped right into the path of a burgundy sedan
an explosion of gray feathers
a few minutes later the driver pulled onto the shoulder
and sat stunned behind the wheel while his hazards blinked
I think of that bird a lot
and the stunned driver
thank god, I’ve never hit an animal
my uncle has totaled car after car
running over a plethora of deer
it’s so dark on those country roads
and the deer come out of nowhere
III.
remember when we were little whores
weeks into our love affair on women’s land?
I was hallucinating because I’d abruptly quit drinking
you were taking hooker baths in the tent
in between, we were fucking like nobody’s business
the month I met you I was starting a new life
trying to put something down
without picking something else up
as much as possible I pretended
there weren’t objects floating around me
I crawled around a field with my sketchbook
trying to capture the poses of a hundred dying bees
I thought they were tame, friendly even
because they didn’t fly away when I came near
later I found out bees tiptoe delicately around right before
they die
I drew portrait after portrait of their hairy legs and
thick yellow sweaters
this was in the beginning when we still wanted to give
each other everything
IV.
we both love dying things more than we let on
and we let on quite a bit
if it’s true we’re dead, I won’t know how to love this
every wreckage, the beginning of something else
Look at us beginning, says the tiny pulsating water bubble
Hi, nice to meet you, I’m the loam that grew a heart
V.
when I figured out you were cheating on me
I told my therapist, Thank god I’m not a violent person
she looked at me astounded
my body full of self-inflicted wounds
I was a dumb dog, drugged and waking from anesthesia
walking into walls, half-dead, trying to wag
the deep-orange bile came years later
I didn’t even know it was inside me when I heaved it onto
the rug
VI.
I’d been shooting at the wrong target for months
you were in your bedroom across the hall
talking to your trick or writing her letters
our apartment was big and cheap
we both had a bedroom to hide in
in mine, I began a portrait of myself
pushing an oil pastel hard into the closet mirror
outlining my sunken eyes and worried brow
I kept correcting my eyes, making them sadder and sadder
then I gave myself a stick body and got a hammer
VII.
I wanted to swing the hammer harder
than I’ve ever swung anything
for the head to go through my head drawn on the
mirrored door
but I was afraid to make too much noise and wake
the neighbors
really I was afraid to lose my shit
I tapped the hammer lightly onto my face and the mirror
shattered
it broke because it was cheap, not because I broke it
VIII.
it was maybe midnight
when my impotent shatter made you knock
What’s going on? you said
I’d been asking the same question for months
I opened the door slightly as if you were a solicitor
the heavy hammer hid behind my back
pulling on the tendons in my shoulder
I could see you were worried
until now I’d swallowed every bit of fear and left you
out of it
but now part of my blue pastel eyelids lay on the floor
at my feet
IX.
nobody’s perfect
I did my share of lying, too
it’s impossible to know in the lying moment
which lies we’ll be unable to recover from
X.
things do just disappear all the time
people and dogs and children
your mother went fast
then us
poof
my bags were packed
no way to know whose shoddy limbs
will crumble off the torso first
XI.
imagining Rorschach gone is like imagining the earth gone
I know each is slowly going but to imagine it
the scientists have shown us graphs of the hole-filled sky
disappearing bees and birds plucked from oil slicks
there are new kinds of scientists now like ER surgeons
sent to coax polar bears off broken ice floats
and take pictures of islands made of plastic bags
we’re running out of room for our trash
but we’re still here with our skin intact
the barge of garbage far enough away
enough of the bees’ work already done
XII.
The dog will start closing up shop, my coworker said
They stop eating and drinking and wagging
I do things on purpose to make Rorschach wag
now that she’s almost blind with an arthritic spine
every day I bribe her to keep the shop open
I greet her dramatically with wide arms
stop at each hamburger stand
carry her up the stairs she’s fallen down
she’s a foot behind, stiff legged in the crosswalk
an old dog stopping traffic
I walk backward in front of her
trying to coax her all the way across
XIII.
I’m typing this with my hand on Rorschach’s thigh
she’s running in her dream
the irony is she’s so old she can barely walk
I watch her legs move in sequence
tiny flips of her calloused paws
a quiver of her pink, spotted lips as she barks
&n
bsp; everything is spotted on a Dalmatian
not just the fur
the roof of the mouth, the inside of the lips and ears
XIV.
you think a dog is old until it gets even older
her gaunt back hips, the lumpy body getting lumpier
Rorschach sleeps on the bed with me
coughing through the night
her throat a road in winter, impossible to clear
I follow her around with a tissue to wipe her running nose
before she jumps off the bed
she pauses afraid not able to see
I say, Come on, Rorschach, you can do it
or I lift her with my bad back
XV.
Rorschach’s sweater is amazing
a gray-and-lavender argyle turtleneck
she looks like a scholar
without it she shivers
the other night when I took it off to wash it
her hips looked so thin
XVI.
Rorschach’s senile now
sometimes when I hug her she tries to bite me
she sleeps all day with her fading hips
her old dog lip curled back
I put my hand under her belly or leg or paw
the heat of her dog body against me
when she’s gone I can only imagine it
as the sadness of wanting a tangible god
Part Four
The Official Center of the World
I.
in a few days it will be Rorschach’s thirteenth birthday
today she had pre-birthday pizza and pre-birthday French fries
it’s her new habit to press her paw into my thigh while I drive
my new habit is to touch her ears as much as possible
I don’t ever want to forget how they feel
I push my nose into the fur at the top of her collar
try and memorize her smell
I do it again and again until she growls at me
it’s difficult to smell her neck, dodge being bit,
and the whole time not crash the car
would it be fucked up
to get Rorschach’s ears taxidermied after she dies?
what do people normally do with their dead pets’ ears?
I want to have something to hold
during moments of great despair when she’s gone
during moments of great despair now
I hold her until she tries to bite me
and then in a few hours I try again
her taxidermied ears could be like handkerchiefs
if I promised not to wring them would it still be fucked up?
II.
what if you leave knowing there’s nothing where you’re going?
but you go anyway, you need the going
the hand out the window, the red rocks, all that
the hot wind blowing in the window, the back of your T-shirt
stuck to the seat, wet with sweat
you need to find a humble beaten god
like a bad petting-zoo goat
always shooed for gnawing the wall
a god like a bar buddy
with a flawed and sloppy past
knuckles fucked from punching walls
finding this god is dire, the same way it’s dire
to sit next to the right person in the breakroom
after a friend’s suicide
a god who’d never say anything stupid
who’d understand how a person could climb
the bleachers of a football stadium and jump
how this complex sorrow, holds inside it
the possibility of all our climbing legs
III.
people say anything to the ones they love
they say, I’d give you my kidney
I’d bury you with my own hands
I’d do anything, god forbid, that day comes
in the last days of your mom’s life
we begged you to let us take care of her for a few hours
while you got a massage
you’d been by her side nonstop for months
your back knotted from leaning over her hospital bed
you agreed, but only if I promised to keep her company
while you were gone, to talk to her, she could still hear
even though she was no longer talking
terrified, I examined her face while she slept
her eyelids closed heavily from the drugs
I was thankful every time she took a breath
I forced myself to take her hand
I’ll take good care of your daughter, I said
when I said it she grunted so loudly it scared me
I couldn’t tell if it was gratitude, a threat, or a plea
it shook me but when you came home
I didn’t tell you about her grunting or my promises
I don’t know why
did she know I’d only be able to keep my promise for a year?
IV.
out the car window
are snapshots from my marriage
my marriage
drowned, resuscitated, drowned
the final fall, haphazard
a slip on the sidewalk, a cracked skull
then we were facedown and drowning
in the tiniest puddle of our own blood
I’m spreading my fingers as wide as I can to let the air
rush through
Rorschach’s hips are warm from the sun coming in
she’s sleeping a deep, old-dog sleep
lip curled back on the seat
a bump in the road wakes her and she opens her eyes
V.
everything wasn’t always heavy
once I called you from a pay phone
and asked you what you were doing
in your sweetest voice you told me
you were feeding honey to a dying bee
it could hardly walk, tiptoeing slowly
along the edge of the saucer
after an hour, it had the strength to fly away
VI.
I want to choose the cancers in my book
the breakups, the deaths, and the impending deaths
it’s summer and Rorschach’s wearing a fur coat
I’m taking her on a road trip for her birthday
I promise this is the last trip, I say to her panting head
it’s clear I’m the only one looking for an earlier self
VII.
I hate the idea of not knowing your dog is sick
you think the dog has pulled a muscle
and that’s why it’s suddenly limping
or you think the dog is just a little sleepy
dogs can’t mumble in bed in their sweaty pajamas
next to a nightstand covered in half-eaten puddings
I hate that dogs can’t say a slow, measured goodbye
VIII.
Felicity, California: The Official Center of the World
Population: 3
I wish there were trees but we’re in the desert
just trains and rocks and occasional signposts
this is what I wanted, right?
hundreds of miles to pull my dead marriage from me
and leave it fluttering in the road behind
The Center of the World is currently closed
and open by appointment only
Please call for an appointment to visit the Center of the World
or the Center of the World Gift Shop
The Summer of Dead Birds Page 3