in between continents, we slept
on an air mattress, which,
to our great pleasure,
had a headboard and everything.
my father had taken my bed.
three generations had slept there:
his grandparents, his aunt, and
me. he’s wrapped in things,
my father, in their
threads to the past and their
permanence, the comfort of
ownership. not me. a bed is a bed.
I respect my needs. but not
the flesh and blood passed down to me,
which, I suspect, would find little of themselves
here. little of a bed in this
plastic vessel, strange thing.
only air, no concern for fixity, wanting not
to be pinned down, boxed into frame.
anyway, he wanted it; I did not.

a bed is a bed

poem \ giudecca 11.06.15

i'll let it pass this once
this twice
and once
they've kept on
and there's not much left but to let it keep passing
i'll look back on that moment
and wish i'd had something to say, but
i didn't speak the language, and
if we're being honest it was too late for me to learn.

i heard the door open and shut,
but did not see it. these things happen behind walls
and sheets of opaque glass
and courteous smiles. take another sip.
blink. breathe—in, out. pretend
to take an interest.
display
those teeth.

sharpened, like a glance,
calculating, waiting, jumping, 
finally,
into action,
snapping necks.
and there's still nothing to say about it,
only to watch, to see,
to let it pass.

quietx3