After Alejandra Pizarnik

Fireworks in the background like an incongruous soundtrack,
           either celebratory or ominous, a veil of smoke behind

a neighbor’s house, the air askew with booms.

The silver suitcase is dragged down the stairs, a clunk, another clunk,
           awkward wheels where wheels aren’t any use. Uselessness of invention.

There is a knocking in the blood that is used to absence but hates this part the most.
           The sudden buried hope of illusion.

Lose my number, sadness. Lose my address, my storm door, my skull.

Am I stronger or weaker than when the year began, a lie
           that joins two selves like a hinge. Sawdust in the neighbor’s garage

that smells of the men who raised me. What is the other world
           that others live in? Unknown to me. The ease of grin and good times.

Once, I loved fireworks so much they made me weep without warning.
           I smoked too much pot one young summer and almost missed them

until I simply remembered to look up. Gold valley crackling in chaos.

Now, it is a sound that undoes me, too much violence to the sky.
           In this way, I have become more dog. More senses, shake, and nerve.

Better now when the etches in the night’s edges are just bats,
           erratic and avoiding the fireflies. How much more drama

can one body take? I wake up in the morning and relinquish my dreams.
           I go to bed with my beloved. I am delirious with my tenderness.

Once, I was brave, but I have grown so weary of danger.
           I am soundlessness amid the constant sounds of war.