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2002-08-04

Max Mackie (b. A Cat)
B. 1980s New York / D. 7.26.02 Brooklyn
Cancer

Finally on Friday the thunder and a drenching rain—takes an hour to get down here from Shea—along the way it kills some guy drinking rain on a roof in Little Italy with lightning. Safe in my yard—I suppose—I drink the rain too.
Would I have been a good mother?
By Sunday it’s as if it never happened—and by noon the leaves hang from the forsythia stalks like crucified things.
Not too erratic?
I return in memory to the streaming darkness—bee-like—a black water bee?—I sip and sip and taste my lips to see if there is any inspiration to be found there.
Answering only to reminders—engaging only for intervals—returning always to a privacy as distant as the Milky Way—
What am I missing?
erratic, and forgetful of feeding times—that kind of mother? I ask because without big paws to prod my shoulder from behind, I’ve been missing six o’clock for over two weeks now.

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