The Eleventh Hour
I knew sex on Christmas was a bad idea.
This is very early, though. And for a first, too.
I’ve been cut before, but I’ve never felt
the knife so far inside, metallic and alive.
Alive. Alive. Stay Alive. Lips so chapped.
Pekid? Fecal? No, pekid. That’s the word.
I saw a video of a man in an art gallery once.
He was trying to put on all the clothes he owned,
this guy from Sussex, in a tiny little bathroom stall.
Stall. Sear. Heat. Fecid. Animated sharpness.
Puppy’s teeth grey, fist in my eyelid, opening.
It was the most beautiful baby in the world.
The man with the coats was. The most beautiful.
Art, I mean. So large. He said he wanted
to put coal in my stocking. Said he had a package
for me. Not coat man. Him. Pecid.
I can’t believe he’s the father now, this one.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be a father,” he says
to the room, glowing. Trap. Sounds like a fishtank.
His fingers pinecones. His ring a glacier. It’s coming.
My hair would be buttery if I had a mouthful. I wonder
what happened to the clothes man? He passed out
in the stall that day on the screen. It looped through
and he started again, thirsting. Keep hydrated, coat man.
Ice chips. Chips of his ring. Why is my father dead?
When will this one’s father die. Not yet. Stay in.
Stay in. I know it will happen, you. You’ll hurt
me. They’ve hit us hard. Real hard. I feel a foot
blown off a building. Like a foot blown off?
No. Just pekid. Just like days straight of no sleep
but afternoon napping. “Please let his birthday be
tomorrow.” Please. All of you must, you have to
stop sucking out my throat! I have to. Think O Canada,
think sheep, think Cape, think God’s hands. And all his coats.
Fishtank says “It doesn’t matter.” It matters
to me. I say delay. Reverse C-section. Section C.
A grown man tried to get off splash mountain and died.
I get him. And coat man. Keep it all on. Keep it all
fair. “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.”
What did I give them, Stu? They gave me? What?
Eight minutes. Eight minutes. Let me hold on.
It all hurts so much today. Peach in a gear.
No more dancing to “Walkin’ on Sunshine.” Sunburned,
pekid, flushed. Hold on. Please not today, Katrina
and the Waves. Did you leave the heat on
so the pipes won’t freeze? Don’t make me give him
away. He’s load-bearing. I’ll collapse. In on myself and down.
I love you, love. You’re my happiest day. I’m going
to get whoever did this to us once and for all. Brace.
Open. Dislocation. Don’t cry yet. I’ll scratch the wooden leg
where you were. Where you were? When? What’s today?