Hey, Big Wild
(in which Frank buries his hands and clouds Mateo)
A promise: A room full of books, leather bound and classic
will always be standard in the house you were born.
Read to quote, quote to be Powerful. Learn to read with your hands
at your sides. Your dirty fingers are slowly erasing the words.
Our enemies, you Gift from God, trussed like clouds
are unusually weak in infrastructure.
Old tales say, salt on a crow’s tail and fall through the clouds.
Did you fall through our enemies?
If you fell through, it was a cloud. And if it was a cloud it was our enemies.
You fell through a cloud, then?
Great, right onto my dinner table, knife with fork tines up.
I wrote all my notes about your future with whisky in my belly.
This morning, I can’t read what I wrote.
Are you listening?
We need to start from scratch. I can’t read what I wrote.
Your arms, legs, and torso were borrowed.
I can make you up like a sweet pie, a crust of vermillion radishes,
carve you from a life-size mock-up of a black and white photo of a Limoges porcelain
plate of me placing plum after plum into your mouth,
to get your curls right.
To hair spray into place the tragedy of your birth.
Don’t quiver under the sword of Damocles.
I mean so about us all. Name it luck if our bodies produce a fossil.
I pledged to make you someone, I am Frank,
but who knew you
would come out so beautiful,
only for the dandruff in your hair?
Only for the shuttered houses in your eyes.
I abandoned the dehydrated city,
planted you in the melted wire and crushed violets soil I stole.
Mateo, you God’s Gift: it is hard for our enemies to remember you, wretched
from remembering they were once so, so mournful.
They can’t quite place you.
A wink here.
A heavy brow there.
The way you smell. Mollusks and veal, burnt fur and brass.
In the dehydrated city we blasphemed our legs and other parts we were born with.
We had fought with those limbs, crushed violets, and woke with our faces in the dirt. Not good enough we threw our limbs away.
Try and renew; our ovaries shed silver.