Preface to a Twenty Volume Poem About My Daughter
All of this is shit
Debris
Flotsam
Jetsam
Shrapnel
All of this stuff.
Books, music, movies,
Furniture, clothes, food.
I would like to tip my house like a teapot
Empty it all out
All of the things I have spent my life collecting
--all of the things I have cherished
all of the things I have become--
And let the world drink it up
Until all that remained was
The empty teapot.
Then I'd get a broom and
Sweep all of the dust that had collected on and under
All of those things
Into a corner
Pack it tightly with my bare hands
--I imagine it would be an impressive pile--
And then mix in some binding agent
Plaster of Paris or concrete or even paper mache
Whatever I could find at the nearest store
And mold that dust
Create a life-sized simulacrum of myself.
And when it had sufficiently dried
Let it stand in the curtainless window of my living room
Where during the day it would be an oddity to those passing
And at night it would be frightening and ominous to all,
Perhaps necessitating stuttered phone conversations
Or even the arrival of police cars,
Their blue and red lights churning the murky night air
Like a spoon in a sluggish pudding mix
Until I could feel the fear that curls at the bottom of the world,
Until I could hear that fear whimpering in the words of those
Who think they can speak to me.
Then I could begin to tell you about my daughter, Jacqueline.
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Brother K
