[Dreamtigers]
A Dodger blue jacket warming the passenger seat. Salted
peanuts in the cup holder. On days he was far from home
and hungry, he held a piece of protein over the transmission.
He knew picture books contain contours of green never
found in the inner city. He liked to watch me read. Instead
of giving me a definition for Anthropocene, he looked over
at the neighborhood cat and said Our smallness, beloved
rabbit, is fraternal. Nowadays, I write things like humming
is the universal language of sensation. By which I mean: sing
so I can feel you close.
I’m humming the pink / nourishment of dahlias / upon your leaving.
Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry
Brigit, I’m sorry.
When I read the goat’s name
I can’t help but think how delicious
he would taste as birria tacos.
I lick my lips to both adjectives
in his name—yes, even Broken—
imagining the meat falling off the bone.
Brigit, there are small children
playing Wild West at the taco spot.
Small children making their hands
into guns, yelling pew! pew!
in voices that can do no harm.
There are gentrifiers forgetting
the taco spot isn’t an amenity
and rolling their eyes at the children.
If you were here,
you would beat me to the salsa verde
and laugh when I say
I’m referring to booty bouncing
when I yell the word nuance.
Brigit, I want you to know
I dreamt Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry
is alive and well, eating grass
with other goats smaller than him.
In the dream, the goats line up
in a field, from elder to elder-to-be.
What a beautiful ombré.
Notes
“[Dreamtigers]” takes its name from Jorge Luis Borges’ poetry/prose collection. “Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry” is dedicated and indebted to Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s “Song.”