Your monogram was a punk rock song
and I stood at the front of the crowd
moshing to get to close to you.
Your sweat was a psycho-pseudo-Christening.
My face stayed dry, but my waist was deep in the Jordan.
In a closet, we talked about what makes a man.
Your monogram was a punk rock song
and all it took was three minutes’ time
to wanna be your dog.
I fell on my knees like you were made of something
stronger than bone, and when I found that was all
you were (bone die, blood die, flesh die), I purged like a
catholic death.
In a closet, we talked about what makes a woman.
And then one night, I tossed and turned
and I thought Atticus, what is a sin?
And then one day, I bit into my bagel
and I thought Atticus, what is real courage?
I was wide awake
thinking Atticus, Atticus…
do you want me to heed your every word
on bended knee?
Seven and seven is fourteen.
Fourteen is two Gods
and I’m just mad about it.
Fourteen, useless number
but I thought it was Revelation.
Your monogram was a punk rock song
and I wanted to trace your soul
with my trembling digits, but I
wasn’t worthy of tangling myself in you
and you were the laureate who didn’t need to get
tangled up in blue.
The wafers stopped filling me up, and when I realized,
I was terrified.
Satisfaction ruined me
with twisty words and eyebrow raises
and I felt, for the first time, sealed by the power
of the Holy Spirit or something even stronger.
I’ll laugh while my manuscript burns
like a ram on top of Mount Sinai.
And then one evening, caught in the sleet,
I thought Atticus, am I just a blue jay?
And then one night, wiping off my lipstick,
I thought Atticus, you say you do your best to love everybody
but you don’t ever stop for anybody
because you have adoring fans
who’d pay in Franklins just to watch you
breathe and it scares you that people would
pay that much to watch you breathe
if you even need to breathe at all.
And that’s why I figured you must be
God.
Then one morning, rolling on my tights,
I thought Atticus… Atticus…
Summers are nice
but they’re too pretty to stick around
with their nickel-a-scoop-of-vanilla
and pretty packages in nameless knotholes
and learning what really goes
Boo.
Summer ends.
Summer’s too good for us.
And I suppose that’s how you feel about
yourself.
Long live Dead-Eye.
