Two poems. (:

There Is No Death In My Tarot Deck

His daddy deals in death, he tells me,
and I wonder how many bodies he’s seen
effervescent, pale beneath fluorescence, with
glass marbles that prop eyelids up.

I wonder how many my condolences
he’s said to how many relatives who hold
handkerchiefs to their red raw potato
noses and blow. I wonder if he’s seen a widow
throw herself onto the box and scream like in a telenovella.

He tells me he’s not afraid of death
because his daddy deals in death.
Pause. Here are some
inkblots that drip between

the cracks in your ego; they firework over mental
maps and collages, amalgamated
so that you’ll have nice dreams without
the greatest anxiety, separation anxiety:

a former fetus torn from its mother
later becoming a lover that splits with a lover
like an amoeba, whose electrical impulses later
stop bridging the gaps between neuronal synapses
goodbye: dopamine, serotonin, all the spirit molecules
that dissipate like minnows


In Case You Didn’t Notice, Agnes is Dying

Agnes’ hair is haphazard, goosedown and glue
someone forgot to blow the dust off her feathery lashes
before they took her out of the box

she wears a limp yellow t-shirt over her saggy
limbs, immobile, no pretty blush, no shell pink lips
someone accidentally trips in the sandbox

over the pull to Agnes’ sound box and she shrieks
shrieks shrieks before the string runs out
the sound box click-click-breaks

Agnes’ mouth lolls open and a thread of spit
drops like a spinning spider
her corpulent caretaker strums a guitar, sings
eats a granola bar

everyone knows dolls can’t walk unless you
make them walk. The old man tells me it’s dementia
before the corpulent caretaker wheels her away
and says tut tut Agnes

what good is a doll that refuses to play
when you want it to play