I can’t comb all of this data, these newspapers and department store ads where you have hidden messages, the swan comes at night; I’ll take my chances.
What fat red lips did you find to swallow the fury your father left you in a tinderbox under the stairs?
What if we lose the key and you turn to rotten dust with no name on your papers? And if we pull the ornamental embellishments from the face of the king and the bruises from our own and burn our fathers in the streets, would we find an easier way or walk right on into the fire?
Could we clutch the burning body close enough? When you are gone I’ll climb your mountains, pick your flowers, love your mother.