On Comedy
There is another seal
Pressed airless between body and bed
That lemon incense still smokes, plume branch
bounding
stairs
toward a fortnight in March,
a firehouse at blinding high noon
Prom season
at the canteen
Coffee, and waffles with honey.
In the motel, I blanched a birthday bouquet of roses
Lay in that secret place, folded like an L.
In a dark, made of chiffon and cotton,
La Virgen sat upright in the mirror of my mother’s vanity.
My choir folder, its gold-wrapped
corners, waited
for the place we were pressed, and still received miracles:
the comedy special on HBO from 15 years prior
Static rolling, muted,
not even a whisper
I worry about the brain in this way
Its small wheels silently tearing up the parking lot
Trying hard to slice a thickening
rind with the butterfly knife
Waiting for language to
transcribe what we buried- no fanfare or ceremony
Only holding its name
in the palm of cupped hands.
| Alexus Erin |
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