From my [own] Janet Hale.
She was the one with the hair. I remember. They took her out of her box. They took
her printed out and they set her on the coffee table so I could learn her name, type and
face in black and white.
The stamps were all marked, all pre-sent, unsendable. Plastic doesn’t stick to yellow
pages. It was the hat-box first—I wanted—the old dress, grey with pink ribbon, frayed
lines of teal. One: ivory jewelry box. Hat pins and boot hooks.
Her daughter (grand, to me) took me in and that was the time:
“Cute.” She reads death differently. For her, it doesn’t blister, or pop—no iridescent
which, if you mean polychrome
I never wondered how she (another child-queen) kept the giant circled Z on
her forehead (a file cabinet crown) until I saw the letter H
The way I look in suspenders, Christmas colors, duct tape.
Every year, we received a large box full. Non-profit Santa, out in public. I always had a
fondness for sweaters on other people. Each take their finds. My father: WWII aviation.
My brother: Ken Burn’s New York. My mother: Simon Schama’s Power of Art. Me:
The Art of Magic—outdated, underfunded, a brief, passionate affair.
Behind Joshua 1:9 and after the middle prayer, I scribble a gargoyle in profile. Scaleskin.
Numbers 22— Balaam. Scuff-free shoes, but I always have to clean up the kitchen
floor after dancing. The pleasing give, the easy feel of black curling up under my index
finger. It’s best when the donkey talks. I wonder: when does Michael fight the dragon?
I read Revelations to find out the future, to listen for God, to enjoy the story I read as scifi,
a literal fantasy I believe because I have been told to, because I want to.
I’m still listening to you and you’re making a talking: talking sound.
I can circle the roundabout for pleasure, Ms. Hale. My experience with roosters is that
they charge when you stop looking.