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.