Immortal Something No. 1
by Lacey Hunter
There were the blankets covering
the dead being carried on stretchers
on top of cars. They were tribal
patterned they were in snow or
rather they were all
the neighbors, all my lovers
coming across the street to
make a new house shaped old.
In the street, my hand is
down my pants.
We were both becoming
psychiatrists. I wonder how
many kinds of "sick" I am. You
this strange pain in my stomach.
You took her book away before
she could rip the pages
out and now we are all becoming yellow.
You blotted her hands to
not fit the secret hole on
the hill. A hardened stomach.
It came with a ripping weeks
before the one was two or
maybe the one has always
been a foot/a pair of fingers
inside another and this
made spring. Might there have
been a dancing around the
strange man who took the
wagon West? they took the girl
to buy dresses but
never together and not without
the sound of drumming to
lead to a haze.
Dear Name Here,
your wrinkled face becomes a black and
white cube on a screen. I'm sorry,
did you say in a forest—
there's another one dead?
I do not remember when
the walls were first covered by blank
paper or when you became a Western
whisper with its arms outstretched
to show it was once uncolonized.
After this it was long socks, not
quite like tights but more athletic and
more "oh my, I'm so sipping my coffee right now dipping bread into it. Have you read the
front page of the Times today?
When was the last time you didn't pay for sex?"
This is from a jogger in the desert.
This is from your great grandmother twice removed.
I blacked out the date because
you were becoming a tunnel.
(place name here)
Did you learn a foreign language so as to
sound more like Lead Belly?
We were all waiting. They said this
was the room for the dead but we were sitting there.
It was only night time. We were not gardening yet
nor were we yet understanding of dances or a traveling sound as there is a continuing of back rubbing.
This is when the poem becomes story time.
In the city will there be a wanting
of what was in the sitting maybe a
lack of a greater park or
a greater center.
I am now in the socket. The pictures
are now the hands on—what's that—yes—
the lower back.
not as if it was a church.
Not that it is April.
Not that it is a bloody road. It was on a stretcher to be made of punctuation and if punctuation is made to halt but not entirely end just to keep a going on as in real time not on East Coast time—
no it was not the church but the roses planted around the church.