There’s a stork beneath my crib who can’t let go of the present, because his boyfriend told him he
was being too generous with you. “It was just a baby-shower – they didn’t mean it literally.” And
beneath the din of your television, he’ll clutch me in his bill, and fly me back to a homosexual
neighborhood in some seedy rookery south of Branson, where they catch all the wrong fish. I will
too. In my mouth.
My brain is a bag. Feed it trash. Toss it in the dumpster. Let it ride with the other bags to the landfill,
and rot beneath the same sun. Hopefully, they’ll come to sort me out, and find a ruddy treasure
worth venerating. This is the way they like to teach the children of America. But not the children of
Antarctica, who stay inside all night with their ear against the faintly glowing metal of the geodesic
station, listening to the blizzard that wants to erase them.