Why not wrap the Lord up
in his sleeping bags
and put him downstairs
for the night
So he’ll be quiet
The Lord your brother
Your friends
the Lord
The sleeping bags are covered in tiny cowboys and floating lassos
         spinning and repeating out into nothing
The Lord nothing
the house
The migraine he gives you is not a voice
Your voice isn’t even
a voice 


Why not wrap his voice up
in a white kerchief
made of new silk
new worms
and tuck it away
inside your dinner
Later you can use it for the offering when they ask us to empty our
         pockets onto the marble countertops
From now on I will be ready
My shoes will be the flat black surface of a lake
My hair will be moonlight
The first song I ever heard my mother the Lord
I wrap up her voice
and offer it to the white worms
working it so hard
using their


I have made so many mistakes that I must wake all the Lords early
         so we can get a head start on cleaning some of this shit up
They roll out of their sleeping bags
They unravel
from the white star
in my pocket
My sister the Lord
My grandma and Lord
My boss the Lord
I don’t have anything else to give
but the loves of my life
their hands and feet
and look
they have


Michael Dickman

Reprinted from Flies (2011) with the permission of Copper Canyon Press.



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