Pataphysique.C

laying on of hands, food flying like shrapnel, hunger’s
stubborn seance, the black alchemy of spit bones,

Metamucil and Ensure.

Eat, Tara. Lay down the dance, the bone magic,
the magazines. 16 years old, food truck morning
coffees, the walks. But you fasted for the Godheads
of corporate beauty, feeding them beneath the table.

Before the unfurling dawn of early morning Manhattan,
you skipped an imaginary rope; it was white pink
and cast a shadow, spinning like an electrical toy

come to life. About the shadow: I never saw it, but I
believe it was there. Drooling finger-paints

rifled canvases, this still life where I’ve left you,

colors arched like double barreled moths. One day
a Spanish man who looked like he was catching flies

with his tongue said: “Her heart exploded.” Did
you hear that? I was wondering if you remembered
that day.