Jack

I left some of my body in the Norelco razor,

the rest of it goes on jumping.

It turns on itself in the night

and seeks towards, the root nudging 

for the phosphorous in the night.

My grandfather’s army coat and slacks

hung in the closet under cellophane.

I dug out his Remington encased

in a plastic box of red velvet,

popped open the top and stared

down at the whiskers on silvery coils

—a glint and the lively, earthen

bits from one morning, perhaps.

Shards of his image, bent and gasping.

Queenie purring, long-haired 

and cousin in christening gown

with watery eyes on lap pillow.

Each with a tragedy unfolding.

The window with fig tree in bloom,

late summer and the smoke

of child rearing is smoldering. 

The professionals are wearing boat shoes

and polos, Japanese cars.

The family photo with a cubist

patriarch folding in from the weight.

Doctors’ hands don’t gather cotton.

Queenie will go lost, and forgotten

in the blackberry woods. 

The victory garden will return to clay.

This body gives way, too, scattering

bits in cut-rate wash basins from

New York to San Francisco.

Some kind of sputnik

kicking up dust and fragments

your body one day put out.