lies about wanting

I am an old woman, named after my mother
My old man is another child that's grown old
If dreams were thunder, lightning was desire
This old house would have burnt down
a long time ago

train brakes are only a lament in translation
and you are not going to die any more

than the digital clock will begin to tick;
it’s a small comfort, but a real one.

your ribcage leans out toward the baby,
each bone a finger, skin a thin balloon

the mouse in your belly racing the tide,
the sweet acid churning, a small ocean

lean back. the child grips his mother’s neck
like an empty bottle, no letter, what you’d call

a lost cause. desire fermenting, your bad apple status
never so much in jeopardy, what’s going on.

there are five types of fog. its dissipation
the result of sunlight filtering

through the stratus layer. you move
as the train moves, the metal cool

in your palm. say it. advection.
radiation. frontal, upslope, sea.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgom'ry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

To believe in this living
is just a hard way to go.



(italicized lines are from “Angel from Montgomery” by John Prine)