Off my head in the garden I see the power line 
doesn’t acknowledge the tree like it used to.
I know I abandoned you,

the way I abandon this bottle of whiskey
against the wall. Each night I revise
my own entanglement, declare myself as junk

wiring and scorched apples, find love
pissing behind the shed at 3 AM
and to remember your lips 

I take counsel beneath the antiquity of stars,
those evenings I snort enough lines up my skull 
I reimagine the shotgun my da left on the bed, 
as just a radio turning on by itself at night.

And I miss you so much I want to eat 
a bull’s heart at a christening.
Turquoise coming over the parents’ faces

like horns gradually exploding 
from a calf’s head. Do you remember 
it took you three attempts 
before the wine bottle smashed? You always were better at
following through with things.

Even now smoke is coming out 
from the kitchen window 
and the beef I forgot is archiving 
its musk into the walls for future generations.

I at least cooked it how I taught you:
butter fused with garlic and cut to an eyelid,
destined to have its luxury spooned 
across the pan-shattered animal.

And I’ve learned everything I want to touch 
just burns inside the air,
and this constellation above me 
is just another night I shrapnel the door 
to a geometry of fists. 

Out here I can listen to worlds collapse into one another,
know I would have eaten our child.
But where you are now 
it’s eight hours ahead,
the sun can’t help but clean 
fog from the window. 

You’ll be waking with your sister 
and making good things happen,
I can almost hear her frying tomatoes, 
while you sing.