artwork: ralph murre
the word of the day is “myopia”
But now it’s time to call the children home.
-- Kurt Brown
by Marty McConnell
With death at the edges of everything
the fruit flies seem unkillable, endless,
while Melissa’s back to chemo
a fourth time, another of Missy’s
students shot in Englewood, and now
the news, Kurt slipped off
in his sleep. The flies
rise up from the sink in a loose
fist, are everywhere, then settle
on the dishes from last night’s
impromptu holidayless costume
party. In San Francisco the lack
of clear seasons can make it easier
to forget about death. Brutal
as the Chicago winters are, the cold
reduces the murder toll which makes
the clear June sky a trouble sign. I wore
a red tutu, symbolizing nothing, Denise
a white hoop skirt covered with plastic
guns, Tatyana was a bee, which are
an endangered breed in our country
and all it meant was Sunday and potluck
and I didn’t know Kurt was dying, maybe he
didn’t know it either and I don’t know
Missy’s kid’s name but Dave was Madonna
and Jerre the leader of the band
and Sonya rocked an impossible
feathered headpiece and Stevie Nicks
sleeves. We’d spent the afternoon
talking about the role of art in saving
our own lives and then it was time for dinner
and ridiculousness, which is to say
living, noise from the neighbor’s balcony
almost as loud as ours, Sunday
and nobody dying as far as we can see.
~ first published in Tandem
