Tupperware
Daylight Savings
I broke my fast with sour grass early in the afternoon.
I don’t mean to do most things, they just happen.
A crow on the rooftop, in the redwoods, in Antarctica among penguins.
This house is vulnerable with me in it.
You can’t spell.
Under redwoods you crawled on hands and knees to see like a dog.
Ladies drive a brown circle in the park grass every morning.
You cut off the roof of your patched hat.
Cooked greens for early in the morning.
Daylight Savings
“It’s possible to name everything and to destroy the world.”
— Kathy Acker, In Memoriam to Identity
Because we pulled night back an hour
and delayed the day collectively,
I thought we could name anything
in that 25th hour freed from guardian clocks
God or the state might push back her chair and dictate
I'm the hostess of this dinner. Your behavior is unacceptable. I would like you to leave.
We live within the time things take to break down.
Therefore my mom’s McDonald’s uniform has not decayed;
It lies in a landfill east of Sacramento, neatly folded.
Tablets remain in Uruk, buried, teaching: Gilgamesh feared death because he loved Enkidu.
A girl appeared at our doorstep in the rain.
She cut out her thick wet braids with baby scissors.
A child wove our carpet.
She coded a fifth claw in this rooster so we’d know she was human.
My mom and I drop to our knees to clean any floor, we call it devotion.
Today I watch a man ask
Where is Ahmad
Where is his head
We call children evidence
My wish is you and everyone you loved are stuck all night in a diner in a snowstorm.
Some day we’ll be in that snowstorm.
Tell me, how much debt we owe to accident?