cruis’n world
Danielle McMahon
i say
i am waiting
for my uncles to finish paintballing
in the adventure park out back
they are just over there
my many uncles
their many guns
i say
i am waiting
for my uncles to finish paintballing
in the adventure park out back
they are just over there
my many uncles
their many guns
Your absence is a precinct.
I question it daily.
It offers no statements,
Only glass, fogged.
A radiator hums low socialism.
Do you alone recall folding through houses
like hands on a clock,
how your bones shrank into the space
between tatami and floor?
The wife wets her hands with daikon,
waits for the day you unlearn thank you.
Memory wouldn’t work anymore:
too much war, or school, or new names
Taking up space where our laughter
used to hide-and-seek each other.
And the lighthouse? It remains
beside the ruins of the old house
And then we’re off to the races, and it’s been a long tour in America, year after year of learning to read between the lines of her well-sold dreams — shopping malls! Highways! Cop shows! Liberty and justice for all! — and yet, here suddenly in the eleventh hour some things are revealed anew — PIRANHA PLANT! MUSHROOM! BANANA PEEL! BOO!
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