Curriculum Lactis [That’s …]

The day or how I hear her, raining milk

I say, mattering less and less, just like you

But I go to work because I love the problem

House of dandelions

To describe said house, breezy and at whim of word
is to describe dead house, a house that no longer exists.

If I have ever once lied, describe promised house I said to you.

To describe said house is to paint a shadow.
To promise described house, let it quiver in mouth like frame of word.

If I have ever once lied, describe promised house I said to you.

To describe said house with the color of your eyes, to describe your eyes
with the color of a key, to describe keys with chemicals and weather, to justify their age.

If you want to describe age of said house, describe why time was dictionary’s first lie.

To describe said house, in which I grew, in which dictionary grew, in which
I am trapped, in which I describe myself with the vocabulary of a construction site.

To describe said house is to trap a lie in four or more walls.

This is not about you, love, or, your bride

There’s a house on fire in the avenue. Smoke is really thick. There’s a structure on the corner in case you need a place to go.

There’s a roofless structure on the corner. Materials of the structure are paper, glass, plastic. There is a metal banister which remains in place since the hurricane.

There’s no hurricane but the air is thicker than the tree’s strength.

You love the tree because it breathes opposite air. You think, the tree is all that is left of me.

Tree is to the left of you.

There’s truth and then there’s tree. If there is mold there must be a wall. Wherever it’s green there’s humidity.

Near the tree is an outhouse. You darken its windows for privacy. Next to the door is something masculine that barricades itself from description. No further description.

There’s too much to describe. Wood cut into small pieces. You pick a piece, pretending tenderness. What’s that? asks bride. Bride sticks around.

There’s smoke in your bride’s toilet. Facing it, you cry. Facing her, you cry. The brown water won’t recede. You’re crying into brown bathwater. You’re flooding the little room. You’re holding your cheeks in your hands like breast implants. You squeeze.

There’s a doctor in the house that burnt down. The smoke never left the scene. Cigarette, screaming, doctor, cigarette. Doctor divides the room to light it. The house reaches for your ashes. Please, please. Where and when do you ash?

You ash, regardless of doubt.

There’s still no roof on your house. Your bride has floated away and the banister’s gone. When you blame her, it makes sense. When you blame yourself, it also makes sense.

A strong wind delivers a page into your hand. There’s no description. You sign on the dotted line. You sign a dotted line. You sign a dot. You erase it.

Where there’s a door there’s a wind that will blow you to pieces.