The Thunder Room

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.