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HOME 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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