by Bud Smith
Smash me a message in the pin points of all those glimmering far off lights. Got my binoculars, I’m looking.
Keeping busy. Taking apart a lamp so we can get light again. Taking the stairs two, three, four at a time. Talking to you on the phone across the world. You say it’s dusty there. You crunch a chip. I’m eating frozen blueberries with bare hands.
August is oblong August is a swamp. I’m showering with your soap. I smell like you morning noon night—lying diagonal, crushing your pillow so hard it’d be a dead person if it were alive. Leaving the TV off, if I’m gonna survive I’ll be tossing crusty dishes at the street. I find the Super and force him at knife point to fix our toilet. But I will fix the squeaky drawer, seconds before your jet skids in.
Missing person: Last dusk, talking to our neighbor Annabell on the sidewalk, she says her dog died three weeks ago. I shake her hand and she looks startled. Annabell says: Tell your wife I said hello. Yes tell your wife I dream in green and blue. Tell your wife I eat clouds out. Tell your wife it’s leprechauns or a mouse. Tell your wife get back jo jo get back. Tell her tell her—when she’s back, oh my, give this pinch of gold dust a shot. And when she’s back suck every tooth in her mouth. And when she’s back put her on your shoulders scale the skyline—climb beyond our vision.
Yes yes, I’m sorry about your dog. Yes, yes, you should get a new dog. Oh no, I never could, she says I’m faithful to the dead.