My father brought me there, Hastings street,
Manhattan beach, their ornate gold house of emptiness.
The woman there, her feet cannot touch what mine do,
The grimy tile or the dead frog
Bumping up against the plastic mosaic siding
Of her pool. She stands sloshing with cognac
And all dregs left of his rotting love-stores.
And his lies, like blue stars, blended to the night
Of my ruin years, smudging the cigarette ends
Buried by the poppies, the shattered ceramic plates
In the trash bin outside, and the glass stuck in my skin
To a hum of black smoke and bloody liquor
Soaking into my skin
A stench of loss.
Of her pool. She stands sloshing with cognac
And all dregs left of his rotting love-stores.
And his lies, like blue stars, blended to the night
Of my ruin years, smudging the cigarette ends
Buried by the poppies, the shattered ceramic plates
In the trash bin outside, and the glass stuck in my skin
To a hum of black smoke and bloody liquor
Soaking into my skin
A stench of loss.
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