I Know This Is No Longer Sustainable, Etc.

by Anaïs Duplan

You enter, in pain, a bestial marriage. Your head is a shroud at your
neck. Your thought beckons to you. Your tongue is clipped. “I wish
not to love you at all …”

There are birds of prey at the subway station. In all their bloodsoft.
I will not come out on Friday. I will hold a paper bag tight. An apple
juice carton, a bottle of kerosene.

You are too eager to get on with it. You haven’t the blood of the
sages. You plaster his face onto your faces. The inherent danger of

I will tell you all of what happened to me. First I went to save him.
Second he drowned. Prohibit that the earth be inflamed, o lord, by
your bright animal nature.

The mountaintop is a black horse a’throttle in your mother. Your
new haircut brings the black in closer. I even leaned forward—

How this people’s fire must be reflexed in your teeth! The nude
holograph of an unburdened sex. These are the commonplace
things. I find your car keys in the freezer.

The flocked places inside of the train. You’re either on the train
or the train is on you, Marianna. The compulsive image of one
prefigured violence.

I am the blue eyes at an evening ball in Mariona. My father in a
ball gown, singing, “Mud is sweeter than money.” I know this is no
longer sustainable, etc.

A rural scene. My heart’s in my hand, and my hand is pierced, and
my hand’s in the bag, and the bag is caught. Everybody clap your
hands. In autumn, the sumac is wild.