Cynthia Cruz
Drunk on glue, in the stairwell
You said there are continents upon
which
A godly ocean of bison still roam free.
It is my sole consolation:
Buying needles in the looted tower.
Drinking cold soup from a paper cup.
Already, a lifetime consumes me.
Ours is the animal, caged and kept.
Ours, the caravan of never.
Toby on the floor and the phone
Ringing like God, that
Goon squad. Like a ghost, like
When I was a girl. Then I lived
Inside a world of blow-
Guns, dust, and bullets.
I accidentally shot myself
In the face.
Call Billy collect
from the gas station phone booth.
Thirteen days in the
desert with no food.
Percosets with
cigarettes and warm Cola.
You can talk to the dead
just like you talk to the living.
Us, gorgeous orphans.
Toy weapons, malnutrition, poverty and diabetes.
Liver and the spleen. Welfare ward of
the court.
Encino, off the Interstate. Low flying planes:
Secret
Service, the Mossaud, and CIA. The
deported and the missing
Packing flights to Beirut, Grozny,
Gaza. Whatever
War zone. Crawl the shag into Mars.
White-hot light of the motel
Bathroom: gorgeous cosmology of urine,
Blood, and spit. For no real reason,
Fire in the sink, ash and burns
On the tile. Sun leaking through
The open screen like a planet,
seething.
They say the first five years define
you.
The first five years are missing from
my memory.