The Culture of Near Miss
By Thylias Moss
Because all energy went into making him breathe
dawn was not noticeable
though on the beach it was bigger than anywhere
else, awakened stars stowing away in sand,
low-tide sparkle of a cosmos the sea will take away,
subtraction is basic, the boy's body when movement
is subtracted becomes less, there is hardly any boy
left, his color drains invisibly; it leaves him
to arrive nowhere, his chest becomes a sunken basket
for white peaches (out of season)
through what he's lost, not what he's gained.
::
I loved Jerdy
and if my name's not here,
he won't know it was ever true
love, not that he hasn't been loved
by others
also not present, subtracted from the picture,
and even if he has been loved by others
perhaps he won't be again
unless someone falls for a picture;
that has been done (someone I know fell
for a picture of Cindy Song).
Loving Jerdy now is to love him
in the way that makes most museums mean more
to me, he's not to be touched, ideally
he's to be observed in silence, perhaps
photographed, probably without flash,
and if he's not stolen,
insulting the injury of his having been stolen from,
he can be returned to, sometimes only his outline
while he's on loan and his permanent space
has a chance to discolor.
He travels much more this way.
This way, it's not necessary for Jerdy to breathe.
He hangs. The museum is closed
on Friday open on Sundays.
His arms rest on nails.
He seems as wide as his length.
Crowds gather. On the beach
his breath fell out of him like stars
When he's on loan a pale cross is left behind
and he couldn't even see or touch the sky.
Copyright Credit: “The Culture of Near Miss” from Tokyo Butter by Thylias Moss. Reprinted by permission of Persea Books.