all the albums spoiled in their sleeves
like a t-shirt frayed from years of unwearing.
maybe it was mystic—a river filled with poison.
just a year earlier my dad promised we'd go
to his concert. (understand a basement record player.
sunshine and the pales in blues. i could still fit
in a pair of his ripped jeans.) but in the hours between
central and eastern standard, something came up.
like the planes would never land in time.
i hung up the phone. no matter what i tell myself,
my body is an inherited art. where the sharp end
meets the skin. then one day, it's organs going bad
in the trunk of a chest. my fingers going rotary, jammed.