Twilight Zone Theme Song


16 months and I’m still dreaming your birthday.  A pitcher of milk upended over your donkey’s head.  A collection of swollen green flowers, mouthing your elegy.  Moths fluttering like the gentle hands of spastics, ankles and wrists contracted, the better to hold you with.

It seems obvious that the swallows die first, falling with an endless series of sighs.

Black and white, you retreat into the three-sided rooms of methadone memory, every mother a looming camera you pretend not to see, every pet terrier a robot on batteries about to run down.

We caught your mother stealing fish from the pond in a yellow bucket.  We tried to drown her in the bathtub, the sink, her silver sandals resting on the corner bookcase.

You wrote the same poem over and over.  You invited God into the room with you and then burned the house down.

The fillings in your teeth overflowed with black tar.  You kept spitting, spitting to clean your tongue. This is not that hospital bed.

This wall has a whole human slit in it, a portal to a closet-sized sky, clouds like miniature tea cups, silver painted gloves jerking on nearly invisible strings.

A tree slumps on the hillside above the pond.  A three-legged doe comes towards us through the doorway, breath like something clotted and wet.

I’ll set this paper over here, with the other victims.  I’ll set this paper on fire, as soon as it touches your hair.

Let’s build a teepee of paper hats and plastic forks.  Let’s flush our pills and see who can hold her breath longest.



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