by Shawn Misener
Grandma made us bread sweaters for Christmas
Grandpa built us a giant toaster
There were five of us
now there are three
We sat around the ocean table
and ate eyes on ham
We spoke in a weird tribal rhythm
while pounding our forks on the table
Uncle John dug out his antique wooden saxophone
and played the Jitterbug Waltz
Aunt Mona built a French horn
from toothpicks and the hair of Magritte the dog
Mom and Dad vanished just before midnight
Sister asked the sofa cushions if it was not magic
Baby walked in dragging her placenta blanket
and honed in on the ham
“This?” she asked. “Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiis!”
but none of us knew the answer to her question
The Rapture comes and goes unannounced
in carbonated soda bubbles spicing the air.
Cities don’t matter anymore. Only light matters.
We’re all alive but there is death everywhere.
It’s all over us like a stink.
The loudspeaker says
we are birthed in rhythm with death.
Your heart is the backbeat.
This is sweet knowledge.
Sweet runny wisdom,
dirty like VHS porn.
Truth is slippery,
it can’t be held.