Even if only in photographs—
a laundry truck, seconds after.
Phone in the apartment ringing
above the accident & a coroner
careful enough to stay speechless
until the wind picks up
& the passersby can smell simply
the blood, like fresh wood or
A boy of six cups his hands
around a wet moth
as he stands up
in the bathtub
to release it under the mirrorlight.
Beige wingdust on his palm.
Yellow. The room is orange
& black also. Water
a whistle, draining in his mother's tub.
This is the part of the story where
where I come in.
around the corner for the signal:
your twin sisters will
free from the balcony.
Memory opens a little door:
the dark & you listen
with your eyes
& write things in my letter
you'll pretend later
This is an excerpt from Joshua Marie
Wilkinson's chapbook, A Ghost As the King of the Rabbits, forthcoming
in September 2005 from New Michigan Press. Buy a copy [here]