brussels said silence
we know flight and fear we lay our open wrists on the table in front of soup bowls we peer futures in peas (a calm sort of green)
tell us the myth when mom met dad (a bar a meal an old man drank and dad rode in on P.K. Dick’s wild horse, mom wore red tits or didn’t–she had to look in words and signs on highway motels, large roads, sagebrush, she had to cast a spell of wild film stock, flower buds, fox tails, wine sap blood, but she found him (dad) and put him all back piece by piece)
we tire of milk honey and jam in bowls we swim in bowls our fish is dead his name was saint and he years in the drift knew how to be gone he turned on his side that’s how you do it, sons teach your fathers, this is how to do it.
chloe veylit recently graduated with her MFA from California College of the Arts. Chloé lives in San Francisco.