what remains.

April knocks again. I have been waiting for her

for days now and my dog's waiting for me to answer, 

waiting to know if I can possibly let her command me

again this time. I hear "Open the door." I am going to--

"Open the door!" I am going to--

my throat emptied of its rumbling darkness now houses your name

still dim like the fire of candles in the cathedral not far from here

licks of sudden movements against the wall 

you are dashed against the sick slides inside

between my bones surrounding what we sometimes call

the torch that flicks on and off but never dies

to be resurrected again at uncertain moments of Easter

without the happy children at the egg hunt

i do not know what i am looking for

now awake, now asleep

always fevered when i pray

kneeling beside the candles to feed you

oxygen, in the shape of 

words i tried to sigh out softly

but i am sick, you see, 

and you can't blame me

for blowing you out

when my throat suddenly coughed you out.

waiting (in line).

this is the second time he's walked over to me to ruffle my hair

smile at me and i say

you make me feel like a dog

he says something about

sex

and i laugh as he walks away.

my father, who keeps dying on me.

i went to japan when i was three

but of course i don't remember that on my own

there are people who tell me the story of my life

and when i was three

(i guess that was when)

my dead father came back to live with my mom and me

in that little apartment with a bedroom, a kitchen,

and a bathroom, the only room with a door for privacy

i remember that when i was three

this woman screamed at me in the bathroom

when i asked her if she could clean me up

like my mother always does for me

and in her fury i felt around to understand

the slap of her hand into mine

through thin sheets of toilet paper

and her footsteps thinning

and the privacy door closing

and i, there, sitting, there, there

i guess that year my father died again

when he left without telling me that morning after

he had brought home end-of-the-day-must-sell-sashimi

and i cried a bit because there was too much

wasabi on my tongue and not enough

smells of sweet fish meat 

lingering in the empty doorway

between the kitchen and the bedroom

i never revisited the vending machines to be found

on every other street corner, bright in the day

and brighter at night (i guess to keep the moonlight

from falling asleep alone), the ones that took

my father's coins, the ones he allowed to slip

and clink through the invisible paths inside, those

that allowed me to tip-toe on my three-year-old feet

to press that button with three-year-old joy:

grape soda, always that can of grape soda in japan, 

laughing, i hear it thumping inside, down to me.