a painting by Vito d’Ancona

A parasol sewn of gooseflesh
and decapitation.  An article

about some explosion in space.
These are what our grandmothers

have carried, coughing pixie dust
and flea market lipstick.  Pink

dresses, brown topcoats, it’s so easy
to blot history with a stab

of white paint.  That fence, Grandma,
in the distance, is not a fence

or a railroad track flipped
on its edge, but the ribs of your niece’s

chinchilla—the one you will never
get to make a hat of.  Huddle against

my great-aunts and great-uncles
in cargo cars dressed with hay.  Hard,

this will be the last easiest breath
you will take.  Ask Mars.  He knows

all about the gas, the quick headline.
In parasol is the illusion that mumbles,

_No skin cancer. _ Not a word, though,
about the lung.  Under this cover

of canvas, simple grass can be abstract
and the trains ride sideways.  Not a word,

though, about all things outer.
Where is your head?  Where

are our heads?  We, who always thought
chamber was a good word.  That paint

can be a pearl is obvious.  That rain
is harmless, less so.