I get nauseated
when I look at maps
the connective tissue
the collective we
the weight of it
all the bodies
represented by this?
co-occurring narratives,
sickos tethered, interstate by interstate
like olives
sardined hip to hip
on a thousand-foot shish kabob.
are we flattened beyond repair?
ambiguous nostalgia is
worse
than a hangover
“He regarded me with the disdaining superior air of a combat veteran”
– from White Noise
“we were together,
we were close,
we were overwhelmed
by great beauty”
I ache for something
but I am not sure what.
The aching stops
when I eat pop tarts
when I masturbate
when I yell at my children
when I breath deeply.
Why do you not ache?
Why do you not eat pop tarts?
Why do you not spit them out,
moving your fat tongue over your
teeth, digging into your cheeks,
penetrating holes,
scraping the roof of your mouth,
clumsily
hiding the evidence?
Stupid.
I am sure of one thing:
there is no light
there is no dark
there is just elimination
and
the failure to eliminate.
In prison
without being accused
or reach your family
or have a family You have
conscience
heart trouble
asthma
manic-depressive
(we lost the baby)
no meds
no one
no window
black water
nail-scratched walls
your pure face turned away
embarrassed
you
who the earth was for.
– Jean Valentine, “In Prison,” from The New Yorker (May 27, 2007)
