Belated Bris of the Brainsick. Lucas Crawford

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СКАЧАТЬ on high, but who you could probably

      learn to fetishize if someone told you

      I was the union’s vice president and that

      I spray-painted placards with stencils

      in the lower basement where I rolled

      my Belvederes and prepared to strike—

      I’s a b’y who had two kids. I’s the b’y

      who never told them they’re Jewish-ish.

      I’s the b’y who visited the sins everywhere.

      I’s hurting. I’s the b’y who died

      in my forties before any story shook out.

      II.

      I’s the b’y that moved away and I’s the b’y

      that visits sometimes. I’s the b’y grieving

      for the queer metropoles who, hating,

      might see nothing but hate in you.

      I’s the b’y that moved away to Alberta

      but not to Fort Mac. I’s the b’y called dyke

      and faggot back to back because I’s the bi

      who ain’t a b’y or I’s the dude trying to abide

      with me, buying a double Kahlúa

      with iced chai, marshmallow buoy.

      I’s the b’y who got pounded in the chest

      by a seventh grader for being annoying.

      I’s the b’y who felt guilty about the green

      grapefruit bruise. I’s the b’y who kept it

      from Mom ’cause feeling guilty

      was my dirty habit.

      I’s the b’y who noticed two of my married,

      elementary school teachers were fucking

      and I’s the b’y who avoided them as much

      as possible. I’s the b’y one of them fixated on

      the term before she took her sick leave.

      I’s the b’y who always knew my dad hated

      holidays and I’s the b’y who couldn’t figure

      out why. I’s the b’y whose dad had eight(?)

      happy Hanukkahs and forty confusing

      Christmases that oscillated between parties

      of pepperoni and marble cheese trays,

      and playing Santa at the fire hall, or picking

      any fight he could at home to break up

      the gaiety. Now I hold this photo of him

      at four in his bowtie and yarmulke, decanter

      of Manischewitz by his tent-pole, teenaged

      brother—and the I in I’s has always been

      the most controversial pronoun.

      I’s the b’y who can’t sleep in Vancouver

      and I’s the b’y who feels unentitled to write

      about my uncanny coast. I’s the b’y who

      fucking does it anyway because it turns out

      that tea was caffeinated and today was

      the seventh grey day of clichéd rain.

      I’s the b’y leaning east like a flower

      that can’t reach the window. Godless

      waters and abandoned mines, this place

      is hardly the molten core of hegemony,

      even with these mixed metaphors

      which is not to abdicate responsibility,

      but is to say that the salt of the earth

      is also the salt in your wound, and salt

      will cure any flesh with time, but perhaps

      even that alchemy fights us; “It’s a wet

      cold,” after all, and nothing doing

      with bacteria and moisture and hell,

      I don’t know how anyone kept kosher

      around here but speaking of moisture,

      we cry holy water or is it a dead sea,

      and if so, why aren’t we floating, fat belly

      up, next to the cod with cartoon Xs

      on their closed eyelids and hey do fish have

      eyelids that help them not to see, not to be

      exposed to my early-morning foggy

      memory of he and me, and, of what,

      on a rounder earth, could be—?

      Telephone Games

      Tell the worms my dad’s not kosher. Tell the rabbi that the salt’s not pure. Tell the sea that its jellyfish sting. Tell the grape jelly it’s out of thin style. Tell Coco Chanel that more can be more. Tell Thomas More there are no martyrs in utopia. Tell your favourite saint that they had good pr. Tell a spin doctor to prescribe you a vinyl cure. Tell a broken record to stop crying. Tell a stop sign to go to hell. Tell the fire it’s got nothing on you. Tell yourself to live in a tree. Tell the tree to go back to its roots. Tell the roots to look around. Tell the ground to hold fast to its worms. Tell the worms my dad’s not kosher. Tell my dad he’s set beneath a stone. Tell the stone I’ll get its sword. Tell the knight I won’t take his word. Tell your words to go back to the dictionary. Tell your dictionary that you need a break. Tell your break that this is a breakdown. Tell your breakdown to wait. Tell the waiting room about your grocery list. Tell the Sobeys flier that you need dulse. Tell your dulse to season your dinner. Tell your dinner guests that the meat doesn’t need salt. Tell the salt it’s not pure. Tell the pure they incubate dead lies. Tell your СКАЧАТЬ