Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2018

July 2; Jan 15

July 2; Jan 15
Photograph via Flickr Eduardo Duarte
July 2

Everything,   everything  feels    like a
wash,  your  mouth  and your  tongue,
and  my   girl’s  home  sick,  and    my
homesickness,    the   birds   so   loud,
faucet running,  the  deep  thirst,  the
thrust, and if time & space were more
akin to mind, then yes,  I  passed  you
on  the  city  street   last   night,    your
wife—isn’t she?—holding    your   arm,
your shirt pressed as morning—wasn’t
it?—and this afternoon, at the country
farm, I stood near you, weighing baby
potatoes  in  my  palm while  you  ran
your   finger     along   the      shape  of
summer,  god, the  peaches  this  year,
and  tonight,  if mind has  it,  we’ll fall
asleep in some little Greek town,  our
empty     wine     glasses   filling    with
rainwater, mythic.

Jan. 15


but/ what was happiness?/ was it standing on a milk crate/ playing pinball when I was  
six/ asking Gary/ if he’d please please marry my mother?/ was it him stealing my nose?/

how easily I gave/ or the next summer/ when brown as a bean/ my glossolalia peaked?/
what we utter utters us/ & that is a sort of happiness/ & you are a sort of happiness/ I
am nearly forty-four/ when my stepfather sees me/ he smells me & assesses my weight/
will this go on forever?/ come fifty will I be/ so obviously expired/ to render this
practice obsolete/ will that be its own happiness?/ the body orders trashbags & panty
liners/ the body sits in the sun/ wasted on abandon/ twenty years ago/ P. told me/ we
are not simply catalogues of grief/ & so I collect myself/ seaglass & stamps/ & this too
is happiness