Today the rain disappears
before it hits the sidewalk
& then the hot winds come,
kicking a greasy burrito
menu, an empty baby bottle
rolling, rolling till it catches
on chain-link, when the soul’s
misery secretes & gleams on
the body & all you want for it
is to cool, like a flayed carp
on ice—unpardoned witness
to the street’s window units
glinting like inefficient
stars, the neighbor who rests
his breasts on the sill, this
kitchen table with its vase
of wilting peonies. A man
who painted in Versace
suits & left Croquembouche
to rot in his fridge, he chose
to die on a day like today,
& what seems so gruesome’s
not the red-white frothing
of his mouth—it’s the A/C
that wasn’t on. He was twenty-
seven & you, twenty-six,
heir to meagerness in this
time when the skeletons
of stillborn high-rises poke
into the sulfur-grimed sky.
Though it won’t kill, this pain
will slug you, it will have
its blood. Shotgun shells.
Chipotles, poppies, a snifter
of cardinal feathers, you
shall feed it what it wants.
Through the screen, a wooly
wind ripples your shirt as
you tear a pomegranate in
your hands, its ruby juice
collecting in a sky-blue bowl.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)