by Eileen Myles

I told my
therapist
about the fire
I guess in New York
they told the landlord
there were
five of them
but there
was eleven
practically
all of them
died
there was
a picture
of one woman
crying
some were
her kids
it’s impossible
to know
where the fray
of bright
red cloth
came from
on the grass
if the power’s
off for a second
it’s fun
better is the
second it all
starts coming
on, fans
whirring
radio
everything

we landed ourselves
on a grassy
slope with
a view of the
freeway

the rushing sound
of it
her familiar
black back
with the shaved
part around
her ass

a hot spot
her white muzzle
turns, watching

guiding her away
from the
family with
my knee
coffee in
my hand
on the telephone

the family watch
their baby tiny
in red
wandering

prey for
my dog
I feed
her treats
guide
her to another
angle

surely it’s layered
the skin of day
chirping
Fanny you’re
maternal
well I have
three kids
they told me to
talk to Jesus

which I thank
for my interiority
they told me
to guard Jesus
for one
full hour
in which
I began to
seize time
by waiting
the bird is like
something you
squeeze, squeaking
give us facts
my home
never burned
and I’m one
the loss
would be minor
how big would
I get as
I turn the
pages
measuring the
size of the
dead
I follow
her shaking head
next quarter
I intend
to teach them
everything

whereas this
quarter I taught
them to
grow up in a mess
I did
the year is
new