christopher citro

christopher citro waves frozen like wrinkles on dog skin

A second or so for humans. That’s our delay. The world could cough out of existence and none of us would know for a second. We’d go on chopping kale as if it still existed. The flies catching on first, remaining mum. This is how it ends—us staring at the flies wondering what their problem is. Custard pie. Ginger snaps. Sweet tea. A bowl of ice cream. Your bright eyes. I’m listing what’s going away. The last time we spoke I said I love you twice. Once because I do. Again to see if you did too. Phones nowadays don’t click when we hang up but should. The silence after the after-silence deafening. The kitchen clock ticks like soldier feet on a bridge, the kind made from grating. It’s holding us up but we can see right through.

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dear diary where is everybody

Since we packed up and moved this summer—oh what joy, what rapture—my left elbow won’t stop hurting. The cat just rubbed against it and I felt a deep soreness with a soft wonderfulness on top. It didn’t make the pain go away. They stayed together and my brain took a subterranean voyage like when you read a fairy tale that’s disgusting and beautiful, the way they used to be and the good ones still are. Most satellite dishes point south, he told me standing below several pointing north. One faced west. I didn’t have the heart to say anything. When I left this time I actually called back to the kids, Don’t grow up too fast! One of them—our favorite—had drawn a dragon for you. Does she want it with fire shooting out? she asked. You bet your ass, I said—but not in those words. I texted you the photo right then, with her little arm across the top edge, obscuring a second unfinished dragon she didn’t want to spoil the good one. What I’m trying to tell you is plant. Plant the bulbs if you want to. I don’t have a bulb plan in my head other than come spring a miniature circus of colorful membranes beside our door. Folks who visit should know the kind of people we are and get pollen on themselves. Over drinks later you and I will pick each gold speck off their arms with our eyelashes.

christopher citro

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