Are You Queen Of Heaven?
David Antrobus Posted on Saturday, February 9, 2019 at 10:22PM 
This is a new thing we tried to learn.
We dreamed a whole summer away.
My cousins walked alongside the ledge.
When we were young we laughed and believed.
Now so many are gone we balk and flinch.
Sparrows amass in the charcoal margins.
The rest of us don't hardly ever blink.
A cab came by, and I damn well flagged it.
No matter. No sense. I think I also floored it.
***
Grieve next time, but this time roll with it.
What's the word they use? Dissociation?
Don't you dare feel sorry for me. Okay? What happened to me happens to thousands of kids, maybe more. No. I want you to focus on the good parts of a bad tale.
I'm a grown man now, of course. This is a life I didn't choose but found. And it's really not so bad.
Right? Do you remember? Since you were there too?
***
Easy words, not such easy thoughts. I don't even know if they noticed me as they pulled the car from the rocks, dripping like a murder weapon, and I stood on the road above, squinting into the decaying honey of a late August day.
Chewing on human evil.
***
"You know they never found him?"
"Course."
"They found his car. Some of his DNA in the wreck. But no body."
"What else they find?"
"Someone else had been in the car too."
"Who? Whose?"
"No one anyone knows."
***
Yet.
***
Hail this tarnished Mary. If this is it, if this is the moment I die, I accept it.
Pain is unconscionable, but love is paramount. My entire left side is ruinous, yet my ears and heart are eerily specific, hearing on a loop the empyrean throat of Isabel Bayrakdarian as she dreams Górecki’s Symphony No. 3 anew, while rains fall like dreary curtains on a sodden carpet.
***
At the hour of my death, a dog came out of the dark woods. Now talk to me. Own me. Anagrams are loco. Keep on listening. Anagrams lure, okay.
Stupid, goofball, elusive, this damnable struggle wants so badly to be told.
***
Striding into the bar filled with the spirit of Dorothy Parker, I fell in actual love. She was a hiccup draped in ticklish grey at the very end of a smeared warmth.
***
The black dog insinuated himself into our family and moved with us to the cabin built of wood that hunkered in the shadows of giant firs. When we had visitors he vetted them, growling like unfathomable sonar at two men who tried to cross our threshold. Mostly he wagged his stiff tail like an emotional rudder that ached to proclaim happiness. Yet he was never fooled. And we chased those particular men away with the assuredness, the quiet promise of violence, the unspoken quenching of some awful complex thirst.
In the endless gnomic bar of Dorothy Parker.
***
These colors. So subdued yet so attendant. I'm unleashed into the street, and alert I bounce then thrust my feet atop the running board and launch into the seat. Then I drive. I am a woman, driving. In the nineteen forties. Away from a massacre.
***
Darting on and off I-5 an hour south of the Canadian border, Koma Kulshan's dusky peak implacable beyond. Dream our common place in this commonplace place. Here I knew a woman with a mouth like yours. Exceptional. Magnetic. Even her brows were freighted with meaning. I drove on and off the interstate like a firefly, headlights lighting each lost tendril I stumbled upon, blunt visions of Econolodge and myriad locations more faceless yet. A kaleidoscope of bleary shelters, arranged hierarchical, like pantheons of gods, sacred and senseless, screamed from the overlooked backdrop.
***
It's a silent avalanche patient atop some empty peak.
This thing started toward me the moment I was born. Something sleek and inaugurated by my own insensate launch. It's coming fast, like teeth. Cold, exposed, like beholden jaws.
Starved. Indebted. Imminent. Adamant.
***
You. No other. Please tell me the same. Please.
O enchantress, O my dreadful queen of desolation, did you ever hold on as tightly again as you held on to me? What yet squirms in the folds of your recall? Who will have the wherewithal to abridge this appalling tale? Will anyone? Where is the dog from the woods when we need him? Where is Ms. Parker? Love, life, music as sung by a child? The wind wrapping scarves of mist around skeletal branches? The cavernous indictment of silence where birds and insects once chirped? Where has it all gone? Where have you all gone? And where indeed am I?