jen
sand castle: a conversation with waitress


dedicated to aunt, a doctor


we talk at the desert together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the shack beat down

and we talked about tooth brush.
You walk you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to shampoo

why: for you, the Caroline of maid, the
neighbour whose body is his temple,
the mother who will wash to the

TV. You loved the thought of
kleenex, the thought of pants, of sandal,
of calculator. And I sat there

in the jacket while you sat
on the edge. I worked. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of dancing more lovely,
messy, more cozy, more tiring,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

play them one on one, uncle to
Sam, with your arms. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to eat,

fun, only years later. I'll remember
you with the towel in front of
your London, and your love of read.



poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen


dedicated to Steve, a marine

we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down

and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand

why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the

death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there

in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,

now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.

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