after Anthony Marra’s “A Constellation of Vital Phenomena”
I walk in the snow with my boots on backwards
so that the soldiers won’t be able to follow me.
You should walk on the road with your boots on backwards
so that the soldiers won’t be able to follow you.
You should sing something cheerful to the sound
of the broken glass that gets sunk in the soles.
When you hear the colonel has been shot,
you should run away from the square,
rather than toward it.
The tide of history only moves in one direction.
We are in the undertow.
We are the bottom feeders.
I’ll turn my face toward your light,
wait for the tide to part
or the roof to cave in.
Follow the Latin names for each bone
you could break up the ankle
until you arrive.
You should sink into bed
like a ship, sink
matches in the wax of candles
to mark the dead, sink
needles in the sides to mark the hours.
Should stuff torn t-shirts in the bullet holes
that leak light through your door
but I don’t want you to.
I want to find you.