“The funny thing is,” she said, “my sister was better than any of them. Not kinder, or nicer, or morally superior, but a better artist. But neither she nor her work ever achieved the kind of recognition both she and it deserved. At least not while she was living. It wasn’t until she killed herself that she and her work received any critical notice. Though by then I don’t think she even cared whether she or her work ever would. Mind you, I’m only speculating. She and I weren’t on speaking terms. But, all the same, I believe I knew her better than anyone else did. By the way, do you mind if I smoke?” The interviewer, a man, said he did not. “I’ll stand by the window anyway,” she said. She went to the window and cranked it open a little, and lit a cigarette from the pack she’d dropped on the bed when she’d come in. “This is a nice hotel,” she said. “It’s got a lovely view. All my life I’ve lived in this city and I’ve never known that the city looked like this from above. Where are you from, America?” The interviewer said yes, he was.
American Gothic
A woman with a gun, and a man
with a gun, and a child with a gun, and a dog with
a gun held between its two
paws face
the camera.
Ragtime
We forget in which zoos foolish
humans have caused their
own mauling. A philosopher sticks
his head in the fire, so
what? Here is an earth. Here is another
earth. Here is another earth.
These poems first appeared at Everyday Genius.
