All That Really Happens

American Poetry Review, The, May/Jun 1998 by Wenderoth, Joe

My whole family has died. There is a song about it. I can't remember the sun on my skin. Not remembering is a house. There are no rooms in this house. There are so many animals. I would like to gather up one by one the animals into my bed. I would like to sleep with them in the sleep that comes after the house.

My whole family is dead. There is a song about it. The animals would sing the song. Each animal thinks about singing and then sleeps upon a tiny wordcolored plot of sun. Each owes on its plot, owes more than it could possibly pay. This owing is all that really happens.