It's spinal tap day.
The sun floats into the sky, a giant blood cell.
Birds awaken from dreams of a beetle jackpot.
Gravely, your spoon pierces a soy Junket.
I tell you my assignment from Dad
is getting your pants on. To you, I add. Dumb.
You practiced befuddlement at the pew,
told us death was wafer-plain.
Now my ear traps your frantic bleat for God
like a hit of pond water.
Painstakingly, we accomplish the pants.
Your frailty deserves another whole poem.
This poem is about a spoon
carving scallop shapes into a cup of Junket,
and bearing the wet slabs of custard
to your tongue.
Volume 20, Number 1 / 2014