Eucharist Nervosa

Diet of brittle wafer. Blood boxed tight. 
Boxcar motherland. How it 
shimmers: the throne. On cheap typewriter paper,
thank you, she writes, for telling me. Did you
say ash? A man in an Irish kilt pushes a woman
in a wheelchair. The cemetery used to be 
a ski slope with a lodge instead of a morgue. 
Father is walking in circles looking for 
family. Bluejay, old pine, lichen on
empty birdhouse. Open the back and there’s
a dead wasp. And the call on my cell—
static. There is not asking, not
answering, not telling: mother calls it fun & games. 
At night I hear icicles slide off the roof. The name
of the stream twisting in its bed
is Blood Brook. Thin slip of ice on inlet,
clotted white at shore. 300 British toy soldiers 
boxed in his closet. On the wall
hangs Starving Letters: seven drawings 
created by snails eating through Chinese rice
paper. The artist’s first name, Rivane, 
means map and letter. Remember Galileo, 
the master of falling bodies, died 
blind. Under house arrest.