Albany State Museum
I ran along a path because I am a braggart.
I carried a tune but it fell from my pocket.
I litter. I quiver.
I pick up a pen.
This is a letter. Editor, marriage takes years
Off your life. Darken the thunder room.
Do it again, to bring in the sound
but none else of the rain.
I was raised up in that regional museum, Editor.
So now my bad bones must be looped tight with twill.
I'm cousins with that teepee, that cut of fresh buckskin.
I'm a bragger who lies through every red vow.
I went out on the path with the rest of the pride.
With the lions, the buffalo, the wolves. Set our jaws for fierce.
It was play-acting. I fell down like a marriage.
So did Jenny, another mother. Only the divorcee stood her ground.
I am juicy with blood, Editor. Senator.
I pay you a visit inside of your column.
The rain pools my ears. Feels swallowed, like a kiss.
Darken that room again, where I hunt on the floor.
Bury your heart in me—
A fine felted thing to drop through my slot.
