Seven Thunders
Photo Found on a Dead Man’s Phone
Doppelgänger
Who is this double goer, this familiar stranger
following me with pockets full of moths—
this moonlit strider, hawker who won’t pass by
even when I pause to make a call—this changer
of pace and posture, alley pisser with swaths
of unrequited time?
What does he spy
in the limp rose on my lapel—in my unrest—
the half-smoked cigarette, my borrowed clothes?
Why must he check his pocket watch?
And why
must he escort me to my door in his pressed
black tie?
One
Winter Ghazal
The longest month of the year is December.
Do you remember the nights of December?
I’m told in the town where we slept together,
the migrating geese still cry in December.
Bundled but cold in the freezing drizzle,
we tried to admire the lights of December.
Please tell me the story of the Pleiades—
those grieving sisters in the sky of December.
In the back of your closet, a single hanger.
The boom of the owl rewrites my December.
Rereading another unanswered letter,
you refuse to write a reply in December.
You always predicted the winds of winter.
The open window invites in December.
Michael, I’m asked, in which month were you born?
I was born in June—but I’ll die in December.
Diorama
Stairs
Beneath the banister,
along the wall, two racks of shoes
and a tall, black grandfather clock.
Its face reads eight o’clock.
It chimes. A wooden woman
walks a small mechanical plank.
A row of portraits scales the stairs,
each larger than the last.
Bedroom
Greens and yellows. A man leans
hard on the bathroom door.
Covered in a ringed quilt,
the bed is meticulously made.
Too many pillows. Matching lamps
light the matching nightstands.
His hand jostles the knob.
Everything is in its place.
Kitchen
In the center of the room,
a table left in ruin—
a meal heaped on three plates,
a fourth shattered on the floor.
Milk trickles from a tiny mug
onto the tile. A dog
with different-colored eyes
licks cautiously along the grout.
Hallway
Down the narrow corridor,
more portraits, a glass case
lined with porcelain dolls,
a runner leading toward a door
latched against the dark. A lone
light glows beneath the dolls.
They float above their stands,
ordered in descending rows.
Bathroom
The vanity reflects
the floral trimming. Violets.
A woman, sitting with her back
to the door, hides her eyes.
Behind the half-drawn curtain
in a clawfoot tub, the children wait—
propped on its lip like cherubs—here,
where no one will cry out.
