In the twilit pools of childhood stories that I used to drink from
my grandfather rested my head
against his sternum and spoke of the time he swallowed a goldfinch
and it clawed its way down his throat,
my grandfather gasping for breath as it shifted its weight.
There were days when the rain…
3:45 a.m.– Pull yourself out of bed, pull a Marlboro out of the carton
3:47 a.m.– Make your way to the back door, make up an explanation to give the sunflower on why the lighthouse hasn’t admitted that she too has taken up smoking
3:48 a.m.– Light a match, ignite the rod
3:48 a.m.– Inhale, focus on the breath, the fire
3:52 a.m.– Cry and pretend it’s from the early morning breeze carrying early morning scorn into your eyes
3:53 a.m.– Stand up, stand up, dammit, wipe your eyes, come on inside
3:55 a.m.– Apologize to the foreign student for running into him, apologize for smelling like your grandmothers
3:56 1/2 a.m.– Take off your pants, crawl into bed, pick out a new background that’ll make you happy, pick out tomorrow’s coverup in your head
4:00 a.m.– Write about it
4:03 a.m.– Be done with it.