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The Mongolian contortionist with pigeons.

was breathtaking, a flesh knot. There were many fine Czechoslovakian skaters that Olympic year. Each ended her act, like a hyphen or parenthesis, lying on the ice in dramatic, bad American music. We watched the Olympian skaters Triple Axle in heaven while L.A. burned a nervous breakdown. In New Jersey runny eggs were outlawed. But firearms were allowed, more threatening than the teeth of an aye-aye. Locally the smelt fishers didn't register a change: up & down all night their parachute nets. Lake Michigan smelled like arithmetic: fog trees, fog trees, bluets. There were grocery store epileptics and alphabet annunciations, and constellations of life's commonsensical commitments, the human contracts: godmothers, godlovers, godchildren, godhusbands. And you my eye-rhyme, twin trick, sister fast forwarded to death, dropped your skin body inconsequentially as junk mail into the planetary mailslot, rag bag. You left a note: The dog needs a walk & 2 Emily Dickinson poems, peppered with granite lips. The shepherd, Saint Cuthbert, from his field, watched angels carry the bishop, Saint Aidan in a globe of fire to heaven. The men who rolled you out of your house in a Holy Communion white body bag wore see through shower caps & rubber gloves. The Medical Examiner was pregnant, the priest fat. Oh how I head talk to God and my love dead. I have never lived 2 days inside the same body. I have never 2 days been married to the same man. In my garden, the red bleeding heart bush made it through our long winter. The white bleeding heart didn't. On the blunt end of a heart's foreclosure, you count flowers; you remember the landscapes of you.
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Author:Firer, Susan
Publication:Chicago Review
Date:Jan 1, 1992
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