taut

and taut bellies recede into the
darkness producing nothing
but a shrunken skeleton
of memories.

the floor, an empty floor
directed
knows to be silent
in the face
of no/any/thing.

can’t find the body, the body.
the radio journalist reports.
he is homegrown northern
knows nothing of his effect
on the audience.

a few weeks later, they find it.
the body, the body.
he saved the lives of his passengers
--in flight turbulence gone terribly terribly wrong--
before his boots weighed him
down.
all at the ripe age of 19.

eight years later, the poignancy
has faded for acquaintances
--dozens of teenage faces in pews can’t believe
they actually met a person, at a party, who died--
the fact, not a daily remainder.
his mother still wonders why.
prays to his photo over the
faucet as she does the dishes.

her. oh, her taut belly heaves, tightens just a bit more
as she makes love to yet another reincarnation
of her 1st/only.

the floor, an empty floor
breathes traces of water
as she slips into slumber,
his face, the only one
to tell her that disco’s shit
while ripping out her rhythms
and replacing them w/ beck.

taut belly manoevers to photo sessions
in nyc and limousines, then back to reality
where she marries a local dj
at the country station.
she imagines that his ownership of her body
is actually his swollen frame
pressing against
her taut belly.