for the big answer. No,
the question won’t pertain to tattoos
or unmatchable DNA, but to what
world, under what sun, in what situ
we go on finding each you, each you,
the not-missed, the never missing.
***
We stand at the foot of you.
Bees and swallows rustle the grass
around half flesh, half bone, half
here, half gone. Dot of earth: nothing
owed or owned. Once you were a bud
in someone’s belly. A swim, a sleep,
then to crown your way out. Keep
mum. Keep it to yourself, Little Prince
of the Reigning Question,
the would-you-do-it-all-again
there there, now now.
Found on the bank of the Spokane River at approximately 2200 W. Falls Street. Adult Caucasian male. This male was 5 feet 11 inches in height and weighed approximately 161 pounds. His hair was dark brown or possibly black. Clothing worn: a pair of black lace-up boots with a brand name listed as “CORCORAN,” a pair of black socks, a pair of light blue denim pants with a brand name listed as “RUSTLER,” a pair of red slightly meshed undershorts, a dark colored T-Shirt with the size listed as medium and a name brand of “EDDIE BAUER.” Dental identification information obtained, no match found. Fingerprints unobtainable.
—Spokane County Medical Examiner’s Records
Briefing
When the intern asks why
hadn’t the animals eaten this man
the river months ago washed up,
the examiner numbers
his answers.
An order. Of course. Most
to least. The day animals
vs. the night ones. If six,
thorns. If thy right eye
offendeth. I doodle.
My sketch in the place of
reason: a moustache on Mr.
Numbers. If three magpies
flap away. Therefore an
ambiguity of eye color.
Sketch it: how weird,
the moustache needs
a matching beard. Hair
today. Eight trumpet vines.
Twelve solstice winds.
What had he gone by?
My reason. God’s hard.
If one. If the earthly
life. The this life. His
other car was a train.
His Other Car Was a Train
My tapping for him
against the Corona. Ding
at the end of the line.
The trestle bridge,
a light table with a lean
negative him. The fording
of, the fire in the belly of.
Getting the outside air
coming in. Sleet as rain’s
sequel, and anxious
were the trees and good
the green fields pressing forward
and how great the distance.
Boxcars with zero sans serif,
with only space—space
maybe going somewhere.
Somewhere, how can we
leave it now?
John Doe #130969
Because he’d brought nothing to unpack.
Because the house of this field
was so foreign, it embraced its resident.
Because the body’s bones shook free
neither twigs nor grass, while years in a row
the fir branches shook loose snow on snow.
Because his dog had quit barking.
Because the basalt was here
before the glaciers came and went.
Because the mouth can’t—however much
it seems about to try—spit out its clot of leaves.
Because he was of little faith
after the con ceased working
and the war went on, the last pencil
selling itself short on the street corner
that likewise won’t be missed
and won’t, for now, be named.
Found along the railroad tracks behind 104 South Division Street. Adult Caucasian male. Estimated Age: 60 years. Estimated height of 5 feet 8 inches. Approximate weight 145 pounds. Clothing worn: a long brown coat, a rust-colored shirt, green trousers, black shoes, and a gray hat. There was a tattoo on the right forearm that is possibly a name, but the name was unreadable. Fingerprints obtained, no match found.
—Spokane County Medical Examiner’s Records
The River That Runs Above
The River That Runs Beneath
Icy maelstrom at its
