I find my grandfather's draft card and seal his shirt in plastic. The rash moves from my arm to my breastbone to my temples marked with sleep. My mother remembers a rowhouse on forty-seventh avenue. Esther was very elegant, she says. The glasses have a purple film and weightless skin; stubble's in the razor cartridge sealed in plastic. At night, I don't see as well. The streetlights are shaped like stars. All I find is wires inside and mostly yam circuitry: Carubba yams, West Indian sweet yams, Creole yams dusted black with alluvial soils shoots through raw flesh, browning. I don't want to know this violent mess; the rubber band bodies twisting each other from eyelet to stem. So delicately I begin yam surgery. The schemas are isometric, so collect them for your memoirs. The bookstore clerk asks me about a dead author; I gesture toward the field guides for woodland birds. I'm still looking for the headlands. The roads are thick with mineral. Mind the dust. It makes my feet itch so I rub them with aloe. There, all better now. I peel a mandarin on wet limestone to revive my spirit. I spit out the photovoltaic pips. |
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