No matter what you do, I sing "Stairway to Heaven" without end. Amen. Sugar on my tongue, chameleon-long, you raise your cotton shirt, spitting sticky rain. Over the Chapel-Oak, Chagall's wedding couple link hands and catch us in their drift, or is it their draft? Our stretchy limbs angel wings whose leading edge dips into the Himalayas — Tibetan monkeys screech of Buddha in drag. Father Hennessey dispenses 50 Hail Marys for fucking mother's best friend's husband. Our fingers slip.
But this I know for sure: Mother sees the sun set, calls me high and low. Above Home Depot, I'm mistaken for a clumsy crow. Even when she ropes this body in, I won't be there, not standing on the porch at 301 Sycamore but floating overhead, watching the girl who plunders and prowls. Last night she snaked into a bed on Main Street, spread arms and legs till the body ripped apart, the right side falling to the floor. The left side waiting for Chagall.