Monument

I need to succeed at a manifesto

that isn’t lethargic,

or paint an accent wall.

I could create an admirable display

with the right light and gauzy linen.

I need to write a thank-you card

that doesn’t paper cut upon opening.

In my spare time

I collect jigsaw puzzles.

I bind them together with glue,

stain them various shades of red,

and wind ribbons through the open spaces.

I have little interest in

instructions

or pictures on lids.

“This is an umbrella.”

No.

This is a shrine

to our dead.

When the wall is painted

I will hang the bound pieces.

I will make circles.

I will place a chair beneath them

and a yellow cushion.

The light will make amber streaks,

dust fragments dancing

like professional mourners.

Then I can rest.

My voice is more suited to riddles, but

if I can manipulate edict

with lyrics and fervor,

I can sit in the chair against the accent wall

without pretending that I believe

in anything other than endings;

the legacy of Grimm.

I can remind you

that I write fairy tales with teeth.

Then croon like they are romance,

when they are really just a dirge

performed backwards.

And maybe that’s enough.

Dear sir,

Thank you for removing my bookmark.

It was a reminder that I no longer know the language.

And thank you for the breadcrumbs.

They allowed me to maintain this allegory.

Enclosed is a bandage.

I am sorry for the laceration.

With gratitude,

x

“This is a storm cloud.”

No.

This is a blood blister

before it breaks.