He sets paper sailboats afloat on the pond,

combs the water with his fingers so the boats

move forward as if propelled by waves.

He looks up at the sky and wonders how

the sun manages to float up there on its own.

My grandfather asks him why he had to die

of starvation and exhaustion in the gulags,

why after surviving Hitler’s demonic reign

did they force him into the Red army

and promptly ship him off to Siberia?

But Stalin cannot hear him, nor can

he hear the millions of other dead

that have followed him to the edge of the pond.

Why do you not suffer, demand the murdered poets.

What kind of justice is this? they ask.

A purple butterfly lands on Stalin’s hand.

I will let you live, he whispers,

and releases it into the burning forest.

‍

I struggle to see over the shoulders of naked

and shivering men, boys, girls, women holding

babies. We turn a corner where bodies sway

from ropes, heads bowed and lolling

as if in prayer, beneath a rusted sky

straining to stay afloat. 

It’s the same dream again and again.

Helmeted men without faces swing clubs

at our heads, beat us forward, forward.

They’re feeding the monster Jews,

its mouth a yawning black and toothless hole,

tongue flopping like a dirty wet mattress,

insatiable. Gunshots pierce the shroud

of stifled weeping.

Our hands no longer

our hands.

‍

‍

There we were, walking the line along

death’s precipice, mother trying on hats

in heaven’s department store.

Across the street, whores whistled

bitter schlaffmusik to lull the actuaries

into hypnotic grief. We tried

calling home but the telephone wires

had been ripped out by raccoons

or the government. I held the last

dime in my sweaty palm. Father had

a way with words, commanded them

stand tall as corn in August.

Since he’s gone there’s been a loud

silence, the hum of climate control

shifting the direction of my thoughts.

Bread refuses to rise even when

I strum the national anthem

along my pelvis. Always there,

always forgotten, my coccyx

connects me to what we always were.

*

Maybe it’s the rain or the spring

in the heel of my shoe or the cicada’s

shed overcoat alone on a lawn chair,

but something’s been telling me,

whispering in my ear, dance, or maybe

it’s once, or maybe dunce. Fire’s music

whorls through the wild conifers,

spreading the latest conspiracy

darkening the dark web.

How much of the soul is metaphor?

Someone said, you can’t overestimate

the body’s desire for eternity.

A baby’s finger clenches like its pulling

a trigger. Is its first instinct to kill?

I turn away in disbelief.

Chatter like fat in a flame.

*

Corpses burst out of their wooden pods

claw their way to the surface,

and forage the forest floors for guns.

I hide among the leaves and needles,

dreaming of another kingdom, another time.

Is this what trauma does? A bed might be

a bomb, a bomb might be a bed,

or maybe just a briefcase left innocently

by the embassy door. I have so many keys,

I can’t remember what they’re for.

The dead sit hunched, nodding in agreement,

emptying their pockets, dragonflies drying

transparent wings on their naked skulls.

One pulls a bullet from his temple, sets

it down on a stump with a little tap.

There’s always an eighty-four percent chance

of winning Russian roulette

for whoever goes first.

*

The crowd celebrates the return of

the father. Kismet, they say. Savior,

they whisper. Messiah, they think.

Each hair on my head extends its

root down into my brain where the masses

gather, staring in wonder at the dome of sky.

Mother holds a box of sea salt. Kosher,

of course. That’s the spirit! Spiritus mundi?

Make like a rabbit and burrow deep,

she says. I dig up their graves but find

only empty orange shells.

A jet plane stitches the sky closed.

I throw another stick in the fire.

Father says, stop crying

and smile for the camera.

‍

there is no window

that has not been filled

with cold hard bills

stacked up like bricks

to block out the sun.

In the dream of money

a woman gives birth

to a baby that cries

and cries until filled

with spoonful after

spoonful of coins.

In the dream of money

someone says, capitalism

is in our blood, and,

indeed the ground below

us is stained with money.

In the dream of money

money falls from clouds

but burns to ash before

hands lifted skyward

in prayer can reach them.

In the dream of money

all prayers start and end

with money, and the newly

converted fall to the floor

and writhe until they’re

covered in a blanket

of stitched together bills.

In the dream of money

we’re told that everyone’s

a winner before our

shirts are stuffed with

cash, our pants stuffed

with money, all of us hoisted

up like scarecrows in a field

of scarecrows, all of us

lifted onto our own posts,

coming apart in the wind.

‍

It’s true that they live longer than we do. Maybe because,

more than any other species, they don’t give a shit.

Did you know mermaids when tired rest their heads

on the backs of sea turtles? No? That’s because I made it up.

Mermaids are always tired. Like us, they long

for the sturm and drang that only human companionship can offer.

Turtles have no such desire. The turtle’s night-light turns off

each evening and it sleeps without worry about the next day’s tide

or what absurdity may happen in the corridors of power

above the shimmering surface, each scute on its back conditioned

to grow thicker by the day. Under its shell though, the turtle

remains tender. I know because I ate one—accidentally—

thinking snapper soup referred to the delicate red Caribbean fish.

Which leads me to this: never double-cross a turtle.

If you do, don’t let its sad eyes fool you into thinking it’s forgiven you.

Turtles hold anger inside where it moves freely from grievance

to grievance beneath a protective dome. Vigilant and hungry,

they wait for the right time to latch onto their prey,

dense neck muscles built to tug and tear, knowing, when its predators appear,

stronger and more agile, there is always plan B:

retreat, burrow, blend with the sea floor. And wait.

Soon every other creature will be gone, and it will be safe to emerge,

limbs a little stiffer, a little slower, sediment sliding off its back.

‍

A metal comb slides

through wet black hair,

steel teeth dragging

translucent lice,

their sticky eggs

dripping from each strand

like lanterns in trees

tilting in the wind.  

‍

he didn’t know

if he was

in the whale

or if the whale

was in him

if he was white

or blue or high or low

he didn’t know

if he knew

or what he knew

if what he knew

was new

or if what he knew

was white or blue

he didn’t know

if he was talking

aloud or

in his head

or if the whale

was alive or dead

or in his head

he didn’t know

what he didn’t know

what he didn’t know

he knew

and back and forth

his thoughts flew

until the whale blew

and set him loose

and then he knew

he was alone

for no one came

to his rescue

he swam to shore

the sand was white

the sky was blue

at last he cried,

mon dieu, mon dieu,

je suis perdu.

‍

‍