toward the end we sit together in the darkness
The heavy curtains drawn, the sun a wash like clorox on the screen boxed in the console. I sip a cabernet, the way my mother used to do to accompany the hours of the Zenith. My father with the don’t-touch-the-remote at his elbow. The cuff, the tray with pilled pockets. He likes Lupino best, her films before the war, before noir changed everything. Where’s Lupino? over and over, while I check the listings, change the channels, change the digitally remastered landscapes on the Zenith. He’s wrapped up like an infant in a blanket, wrapped up in the past. There’s only one thing I regret, he says, barely audible above the volume…what? What? but he’s gone, looking for the face that is nothing like my mother’s.
an interpretation of natural occurrences
On the horizon of the
bifocal, I’ll wear camouflage
into the seasons of granola. Bank
CCTV surveillance cameras, bat
invasions, fence electric
beside the bed—because security’s
not social—a small-caliber with military specs.