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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


I'm wrapping things in mother's house up,
sealing the calm, wrapping what's break
able in towels. I stuff newspaper
from 1947 in with the silver.
My fingers ache from folding and
pressing what ever I can touch
in a box. My neck and
shoulders, ankle and feet hurt. The
boxes are piled so high
they're close to toppling. I'm
drained. Just see the cardboard
tilting toward me. I think of her, my
mother on the bed in the room
where the rooms are
wounded. She is wading through
the packed boxes, waiting
for the next move. Then I take an oblong
box lighter than all the others, big
enough for two huge dolls,
but light, as if full of
air. Then I realize it is my
mother, lighter than the clothes and
stuff animals, lighter than the
red whale-shark
that floated in some pool
I lost the outline of, knotted or
torn so the air leaked,
would stay in as long as what
was a knot held the
last air from escaping, like my
mother, now light as air



There, like a tongue
any place you can
imagine it could go.
Before, e mails
were hotter than
Austin nights.
Electrical, I know
what burned could
scorch. You were safe
in paper. In reviews,
it's an e mail
affair. They can't
feel the flame of your
thigh after three
margaritas. Or that
I shook that my
body wasn't
perfect enough. A
hunk others
gasped and of
course there were
the bare armed
young girls in their
summer dresses.
You write, "missing
in action love, and,
indeed, why
didn't we?" and
this slick grey I slog
thru shines and
now, as if seven years
hadn't dissolved.
I imagine the ache
in La Rosa bar,
drunk on lust or
wanting, that
longing for what
those thick musky
nights I haven't
felt since



of no sleep.
The house creaks,
cat breath. Some
one who seems
an intruder in the
other room. After
email, smoldering,
cryptic enough
where anything
could have been
imagined, what
burned turned to
ice. Hot Austin
nights and then the
months of even
in Paris going over
your fingers that
never moved close
as in dreams.
Cold lips. I checked
e mail in terror
and only when I
stopped caring, a
blue plum card,
his "all of the
missing," how he
looked for me in San
Antonio and even
across the table in
Austin and then
the bolt: "indeed,
why didn't we?"



in your e mail
years after. Catalpa
sweaty nights
and the margaritas.
Your thigh touching
on the brown velvet
couch. An "e mail
romance" a review
says of one poem.
She couldn't have
known how skin,
how the margaritas
were tied with black
roses. Or how when
I was no longer my
leather jacket,
something he could
casually toss on
the bed, asked
did I want to shower,
ice filled the stifling
small Austin room
and tho everything
inside was saying yes,
yes, I didn't