chi. like in energy.

the fugitive

the apartment filled with bottles
that once held purpose,
balled napkins stained with tomato sauce,
the rice hardened on the plates in the shallow sink.
another night
another sleep
that has broken my right clavicle
another dream
that’s made me turn toward the open window
toward that blue glow
with my mouth open,
a lost hair from a dog stuck
on my dry bottom lip.

it is enough to be afraid of the untended spaces
in a bird’s flight
as weeping comes,
the trucks of morning full of pomp
and discarded black panties still and infinite
in small mountains shaped like past
miscalculations.
these are photographs
photographs taken in atrophy
hands broken like shrapnel of a big wheel
and the blood on a patch of nameless grass.
it is enough to be afraid to lose blank sheets
in the cluster of bottles and receipts
and requests from strangers
that open the door again and again
into hallways smelling of french water and bad weed.
it is enough to be afraid
of clean surfaces in this field of dying barley
and misshapen gray bricks
and bent black fences enclosing a parking lot too small.

how it all begins in that winter
that was never cold enough for us
to need each other;
a bad champagne hangover and the fish floating
dead in his own bubbles—
falling falling
the stairs and caught—
she picked me up
in two
in three
in the time it takes for me to stare at grandpa’s back
in the seconds it takes for me to climb his large belly
in the days it takes for us to cry
in the number of clouds that pass over
as we bury him in a mountain not important enough to climb
in five
in five
these five fingers curled around the wet dirt
by my father’s feet
trying not to look up
trying not to look up at him
one two the air three four the shrug;
that i didn’t see him cry
until i stood in his doorway at 25
asking him to let me go
to let me go
to let me find my own path to failure
at 25 when he woke from his nap
long enough
long enough to lift up his arms toward me.

it is 3 a.m.
and i don’t trust
this naked body of mine
these legs wrapped around my left thigh
this head cradled wet on the inside of my left elbow
this pillow that doesn’t smell like grandma’s prayer
this ceiling that will not crack
this morning that will come to disappoint us
this dog snoring with her back on the edge of the bed
this silence that is no longer peaceful
this rose bush in my head blooming green petals
this picture i draw of myself with short strokes of a pencil.

trying trying
three
four
five
six
mom wants to see the son she still remembers
as she turns from the washing machine
and watches me drink warm water
and i can’t
i can’t
i can’t give her the life she bargained for
when she hid her name beneath my father’s
and when she turns back to finish
loading the whites
the small of her is grander
than any wall that has been
torn down by faith.

and seven
jude picks the blue and my father paints
the walls
in fumes and sweat
wanting
what he gives up everyday
in his garden
in his room
in the back yard
covered in dead trees

and eight
the dog shakes her head in the air
like she has won this easy game
her feet in front of her
her neglected nails growing
a tissue wet with cum in her mouth

and nine
my wife leaves the bed
in the dark
puts on her red night shirt
and curls up on the couch
we bought at the clearance store
with cash
watching harry potter in mute

and ten
just a study
back to grandpa
how i only remember his large back
you couldn’t tell he had cancer
by staring at it
even as we yelled for him to move
to get out the way
so we too could see the television
as he screamed to david janssen,
to the fugitive
demanding to know why he kept running each week.

and eleven
the broken collarbone
i don’t know how it happened
i was only sleeping
there may have been a dream
about the ocean
about the tide
about my body
floating in the water
from the shore
floating
waiting to be saved.