Present for the first breath,

the morning sun, sensation

of the yellow stream.

Eidetic images behind my eyelids,

an anticipated montage

of memories at my Memorial:

Father rows while I troll for pickerel

in between the lily pads.

I’m on a hunger strike

until I get my bacon and eggs.

Mother chases me around the block

trying to give me an enema.

Father disciplines me by insisting I mow

our small lawn with a pair of scissors.

He rewards me with some shiny Indian

pennies and two dollar bills for my collection.

He runs around with a toilet plunger,

as smoke billows out of our basement.

He didn’t want to disturb the neighbors

by calling the Fire Department.

We cemented our souls in a pine grove

under the bulging eye of the moon.

The heat warmed an old stonewall

singing the leaves off overhead trees.

My Pakastani Doc opens and closes my heart,

after inserting a stainless steal stent,


“There’s nothing more we can do for you.”

I catch a glimpse of the world hereafter

and see naked girls, rosy-red as ripe pomegranates

waiting to mate with any man who doesn’t wear

a cross or Star of David.