AUDIO
& as you read it pantomimes
the stolen mynah bird’s cry. The thief
that slid the bird from your hands
returns with it the very next day.
Too loud, she says. Plus it shits
everywhere. Your first reply bounces
back. You begin again, calling
everyone by their nicknames: Fancy-
pants, Boysoldier, Laughing Guy.
Nothing. Back in its cage,
the mynah bird mocks your failed
communique, composing its own epistle,
which begins: Mother dear, Father sir,
forgive my silence... You reach for the phone
to apologize, but it’s not there.
Hey, the thief says, can I have that?
You look. She’s pointing
to the spot just above your heart.
_____________________________
to shoulder burdens we long to see
him shoulder. Some years older
& wiser, his settee quaking
at his settling in, he recites
passages from discarded briefs.
The singular denotes the plural
wherever appropriate, we heard
over the murmur of the jurors.
I forget where that’s from.
We shaved our heads to look like him,
believing that with those locks,
no one would get in—but he did.
After, we called the cops.
Their laughter was a balm against
our pride. Did that happen as I say?
I don’t remember. Now he’s on TV,
the heat beading his wrists with sweat,
the epitome of clarity of purpose.
We ask for a creation myth
& this is the one we get:
Everything is the same. Things always are.
after Matt Moore
_____________________________
I don’t know you, but still I abhor you.
I can buy my pills online, even order them
for X-mas morning. I don’t need you.
I dread you coming through my door.
I can find my own way home.
I’m not lost & you’re not where I’m found.
So don’t come around. Don’t smile
or frown. I can trade stocks all day long
& play solitary games with my own two hands.
To what ends do you aspire? Wrong.
Your brands are men for hire,
a secure perimeter hidden in the trees.
I won’t buy you. I won’t lie to you.
But I will pry you from your in-boxed haven
& send your data home
to your own personalized heaven.
