Epinician 1: The Beauty of the Child

We’re a family now, meaning,
There’s a tiny pink sock on
the kitchen counter, my
hairbrush lies on the dining
table, her stuffed gorilla sits
on the couch, welcoming us
from plastic eyes, our blue
measuring cup corners
in the bathroom, praying
for temperance, the remote
control of the ceiling fan goes
missing for days, then shows
a demure angle from under his piece
of clothing, so gracefully
cuddled against the baseboard
in the hallway, meaning,
at any given point in time,
something has lost
its place and nestled
anywhere, every surface
losing its brim, overflowing
with laughter.

But I constantly fear the diminutive gods of the household,
for even in happiness

Epinician 2: The Beauty of Dinosaurs

Yet, why do I raise my voice over your voice
like a little wall in the countryside,
why do I place my vowels next to your consonants,
in a grey scale, they look like grass,
I can always choose
not to occupy the space you’re not using in the sentence,
to point out how a voice is missing,
in so many words I miss you more than traveling, for I
being poor, am a single voice understanding
time has moved overboard, and I
am still sporting a rose swimming suit as we reconsider
the occasion of stillness.

We try not to mention it, but there it is,
this little kid here wearing a green cap, we too
want to be hand washed, traced
with a white chalk in a black classroom memory,
unless someone killed us, disintegrated,
unless, there’s an intervention,
continued rain on the stone,
a voice in the open field, green and rose, and I
should read your silence aloud, wearing black,
like that Russian character whose shades are missing
since the street is no flat surface
partaking of us.

A silence of yours I take in my hand,
between dull heavy fingers I play
“you need nocturnal healthcare”,
but let’s get married, taking courage by the hand
to multiply the sense
of international frontiers within,
as a matter of habit, whether I remain the same
seen forest, by the people, for the people,
with you, prepositions are hard,
mutually scared in mutual hands,
for the times they’re changing.

The lesson
I was taught in elementary school
to prepare for a sure end that’s coming
similar to dinosaurs––
they ate too much bread then disappeared
with warm bellies green,
with bloated lamps shining,
with a grass we’ll never taste––
it could always be another way,
like the tiny little red dresses
of casualty.

Epinician 3: The Beauty of Horses
(Olympian 2)

It was I who captured you then,
My mind taken by desire, and golden mares
Swept you to the building
Where, once before, another man had come
For the same passion in me.

But you disappeared.
And searchers, time and again,
Came back to me without you.
A neighbor full of envy whispered
That the gods had sliced you,
Limb by limb in boiling water,
And passed morsels of your flesh
Around the table.

I can’t call the gods
Savages; I disavow the report.

The story’s different:
We saw the Jack Whitten show at the Museum,
You glowed under the light of the paintings and Love
Got the lucky ticket,
Midtown was full of small deities
Cherishing our every step, at the park,
The cherries began to blossom and merengue
Blasted at a soft juncture,
For you and me.

There is no disappearing.
The horses
Traced a path of nostalgia
We couldn’t partake of.