Speech Therapist for the Angels

For Sheri

As we recall her in unison,
I hear her mocking herself

for the way she said
“button.” I mock myself

for trying too hard
to out-walk

my shadow. She’s been gone
so long, so much longer

than she was alive.

Dimming flashbacks to our secrets
remain safe within me.

How the angels do sing
through their stutters and lisps

to thank her
for being one of them.

Last-Century Tells

I remember Jim Carroll serenading us with his needle
sharp poems from the bottom of Foss Hill.

I remember Spring Fling 1984.
(Or, was it 1983?)

Spotting the old observatory
crowning the top, he snarls

at our impossibly young distracted selves:
You can all go look at the fuckin’ stars.

Some loudmouth students reply:
Just wait till nightfall, Jim. Just wait.

All I catch is
fuckin’ stars.

I remember shadow echoes
and the storms they cause crashing around me

by the time I hop on the back
of the last motorcycle I will ever ride.

Racing downhill in the dark
spitting out grass, dirt, and famous feathers.

Passenger to Passenger

“I am a passenger.
I stay under glass. . . .
Over the city’s ripped-back sky.”
—Iggy Pop, “The Passenger”

I laugh aloud to myself
because I can. Diamonds
are funnier than squares,
triangles more gruesome
than the geometry
of our wrecked love.

I’ve gotten close, closer,
too close to the mouth
of a singer as her earring
explodes on stage. Glittery
shrapnel decorates the palm
of my hand. No blood this time.

I see a man
swim with his children,
tossing them in the air,
so they can make a splash
in the world.
I think of my father

and know he is
there underwater
using his gills
to guide me
through an angry ocean
to the nearest sandbar.

I get further
and farther
away. I spend less
time and travel
fewer blocks alone
in the wee hours

hoping to crash
into your imaginary black
jeep with my invisible red
car. I never know the year
or make, don’t care
who chauffeurs you

through the backroads now.
The Stouffer Inn in Public Square
has seen better days.
Goes by a different name.
All the aliases offered
at check-in crumble into

ruin porn, or do they just
ruin porn. Or ruin a poem.

Or have nothing
to contribute
except the image
of Mr. Barney Rubble
ordering room service
in an urban hotel suite.

I write more legibly—
I’m more legible—
in the dark.

Stations

1. weigh

2. polling

3. train

4. filling

5. space

6. police

7. bus

8. first aid

9. fire

10. subway

11. work

12. TV

13. weather

14. way

And the radio played without station or stanza break deep into another Friday night at the end of March.

Hippocampus

And a broken woman
writes on the wall
ruin in white chalk:

“Daddy, I waited here for you
a thousand times, but you
never showed up.”

Her poems caption
invisible sketches
of skeletal structures.

Become silent
lyrics to an instrumental

with conga, claves,
baritone sax, banjo or tres,
instead of guitar.

Her unspoken words
translate photos
someone forgot

to delete from a phone
donated to another one
who lives

on the other side
of the Malécon.

Another one
who swims

with porpoises
and seahorses
inside crumbled concrete reefs.

Grime Dance Hall

“I always tell the truth,
even when I lie.”
—Tony Montana in Scarface

You were my gateway
drug. My gateway
crime. I drew
on your face
with a broken eraser.
Loaded pistols appeared,
and the word

LOVE faded
under the hot Havana sun.