Murray Moulding

DOCTOR LOSES MUSIC           --for Katy When the doctor saw her walk out the drug store his name changed. This could be that day between names that could last a lifetime but was Tuesday's eleven o'clock in a foyer of estrogen, today's air raid tomorrow's oblivion. The magnetism whistled in a flock bending his aura. He hates losing his music. There's no place under the sun like one's gasaholic when reason is on sale and people in the parking lot, when dogs tread softly as elephants with that angry smile. He turned to the experts. Footnotes, rolodex somewhere she was swimming that spelled amnesia dot com. He should ask himself sugar cone or the cup? He was still falling. Last night he'd climbed way up where the windows opened and flew, the skinny bitches . . . the doctor's new name climbing poisons. He watched her excrete the parallelogram but couldn't read a word. He knew she was singing, it sputtered on the hood, he smelled garlic. "Bee balm my baby," she sang, "bye bye Okinawa." It hurt, he wanted to look solvent or succulent a sacrament to the roof of her mouth, bread to body, wine to blood. But it hurt. Could she tell? doors flapping, unhinging as she pressed on to Safeway, doors ruffling their black feathers, perched on a stanchion dropping down again to sip someone's broken eggs before his new name crawled in the window, out of breath, absolutely inhuman. ********************************************** THURSDAY Mother what is left of you? Can't you smell Father drifting in the grass fires? I called last week and heard the robins crack daylight saving time. I opened the door and saw you stirring sea shells on black velvet and the top down on the Buick and this bundle of sticks. What makes being human is its mirror where I dream and forget who is here long enough for the bottomless falling to commence and then the absence of her back in my favorite hands. Mother what is left of you plays parallel music. You're working, the andante is almost there! I came downstairs. "Macular sounds fishy," you said to me, to God, and to sparkling blindness. I rang, expecting maids but it was willows waving under a cloud. I came downstairs and you weren't resting at all, you were stirring. Downstairs, to be alone to watch the waves out there waving and eating their white handkerchiefs. Wondering if now Thursday if Thursday would be the day.

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