You Can Take Off Your Sweater, I’ve Made…

Sit on the park bench and chew this mint leaf.

Right now, way above your head, two men

floating in a rocket ship are ignoring their

delicate experiments, their buttons flashing

red. Watching you chew your mint, the men

forget about their gritty toothpaste, about

their fingers, numb from lack of gravity.

They see you and, for the first time since

liftoff, think home. When they were boys

they were gentle. And smart. One could

tie string around a fly without cinching it

in half. One wrote tales of sailors who

drowned after mistaking the backs of

whales for islands. Does it matter which

man is which? They just quit their mission

for you. They’re on their way down. You’ll

take both men — a winter husband and

a summer husband. Does it matter which

is — don’t slump like that. Get up, we have

so much work to do before — wait you’re going

the wrong way small whelp of a woman! this is not

how we behave where are you going

this world is already willing

to give you anything do you want to know Latin

okay now everyone

here knows Latin want inflatable deer deer ! i promise the winter /

summer children will barely hurt dear i’m hurt that you would ever think

i don’t glisten to you i’m always glistening

tame your voice and turn around

the men are coming they’ve traded everything for you the gemmy starlight

the click click click

of the universe expanding

stop

aren’t you known aren’t you

known here

how can you be certain that anywhere else will provide

more pears than you could ever eat

remember the sweet rot of it all

come back you forgot your sweater

what if there’s nothing there when you —

you don’t have your

sweater

what if it’s cold