The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

I have no more stories to tell,

they all end with bruised knees and

broken teeth. The sky is always dark now

and it takes everything from me.

The sweat on his lip is sweet, like beer

and my heart is heavy but not whole.

He ashes on the bar and looks

at me sideways. I feel the bass in my chair.

I wait patiently for morning,

when he remembers nothing.

A bottle of Jack

shakes this entire house

and I wonder if my heart could

swell so much and my flesh

burn so hot, maybe he would begin

to look like heaven. Suppose the bravado

in his voice is a confession

of something he is missing -

Every night, the darkness begins

to feel a little bit more like light.

No tigers live in this home anymore -

I look for them in the closet,

under the bed,

in the bath.

The ferns do not grow and there is a

stillness I have never known.