"The Children," "Another Day," and "All the Quiet"

The Children

I put the boy together on an old mattress
stretched out over the cold, cinderblock floor,
fans pointed at the bed from three different angles
to keep the mosquitos away.
 
I put the girl together
under the stars near the headwaters of the Mississippi
the constant flash of lightning like fireworks overhead
it was much more romantic this time.
 
When the boy, and later, the girl
spread their wings and flew out the door
there was an ache in my chest that should have been filled
with flipbooks of perfect memories
hand-drawn pictures to hang on the refrigerator
mother’s day bouquets decaying in the windowsill
 
but there’s never enough
enough of anything.

Another Day

I wake up and the room is strewn with bones.
All of mine are still inside me, but there’s a rumpled pile of flesh
in the bed next to me, splatters of red all over the wall
the film camera in the corner knocked on its side and recording
only the shadows under my bed, and then my feet
as I walk across the room and turn it off.
 
I have terrible dreams sometimes, say terrible things in my sleep sometimes
apparently even do terrible things every once in a while.
It usually has to do with how many hours I’ve worked that day
how stressful my day was, how much I’ve had to drink.
There’s really no excuse.
 
There are wild dogs that live down by the railroad tracks
that will cart off the basket full of bones when I bring them down
chew them into oblivion, regurgitate the marrow for their young.
I’ve tried to tame them with whistles and coos, but they only come out
after I leave, disseminate the offerings of bone and fat in order of hierarchy
they are ungrateful but dependable beasts.

All the Quiet

After a year of isolation, you may find yourself drawing chalk outlines on the carpet
for company, cutting letters out of magazines to paste to correspondences
investing in a stellar pair of binoculars or a high-end telescope
just so you can look across the alley, or all the way across town
watch the things people do in their own apartments and houses
and compare their normal to yours.
 
At night, your dreams may be filled with continuing story lines from the TV shows
you fell asleep watching, or have been watching all day, all week
and the story lines don’t make sense, but that’s okay,
because you’re not a professional screenwriter or actor
you’re not responsible for realistic dramatic tension or dialog,
your dream journals are filled with jumbled memories of movies and sitcoms
you may or may not have watched or dreamed about
but someday these days will feel like a dream, too, so it all belongs.
 
Someone on the radio says this is what it must have felt like to be a monk or a nun
trapped in a monastery or abbey hundreds of years ago, no contact, no conversation
no voices for comfort, just the passing of days, of work, you turn off the radio
and the someone is gone—you turn it back on and the voice is back, droning
about being alone, and there’s dinner being delivered by someone you can’t talk to
and groceries dropped off by someone who disappears before you reach the door
the thunk of the mail as the mailman edges quietly and quickly from one house to the next
and you, pressed against the door, giving an extra two seconds
for the person on the other side to disappear
not because you want to but because this is how it has to be.