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The Book of Daniel By
Rebecca Lu Kiernan
NASA By Rebecca Lu Kiernan Your
mother never called you Danny, Her long
cherry hair adrift on sea breeze, Brushing
against your bronze face In that
bent photograph, Everything
softened in the sodium light, Even the
detachment in her voice. Your first
wife never called you Dan In your
steel blue Armani chalk stripe Too
exhausted for conversation As you
stumbled in late from work To the
anesthesia of quick, efficient copulation. It was
always Daniel, Biblical,
unalterable, muscular. Daniel
of the labyrinthic hemlock forest. Daniel
of twilight stained glass intercessory, Daniel
of ashy volcano rain and night blindness. Daniel
of darkening angels. I ride
to you on moonlight Through
the gap in the uneven new curtains Purchased
after the fire. There
are some things I think you should know. How many
hurricanes will come this season. The
number of sea shells That
will fit in the cup of your hands. The
boiling point of tungsten. How
velocity relates to time In the
calculation of displacement. The
distance between Io and Ganymede. The
brightness of Bellatrix. The
shape of things to come. The most
likely method of suicide For a
person with an I.Q. exceeding 140. The
lowest level of earthquake Which
would wake a sleeping dog. The
gemstone beneath Europa's icy sea. What a
terminally ill blue jay will do to hasten death. The
distance between you and me. I could
never touch your face again; Such is
my fear of flying. |
