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Cities of the Sea

Nick Galinaitis

It’s hard—I work alone and die alone
In a town so dry I never tried hard
Enough to run out chasing clothing—when
To eat your losses without a napkin
Looked nice, as bridges built from ropes are nice.
Monday makes me green with fear; Wednesday comes
If Tuesday isn’t weird, as when the boss
Spilled all the incense and then Mo’s beer
Over alters made from Thursday’s mirrors.
At home, I die alone, each night. The fights
I want to find are as white as birds’ dreams,
And speak to me like stolen work to tell
The thought that’s pure, or cool enough to light
The mind on fire: the mind as crucifix—
Which is real since my siblings are Catholic
And work from home (taking care of mother
Who died last fall from cancer of the foot).
They try and try to understand the same
Books they’ve owned before they knew to read them,
The ones they bound in either black or green,
The pages thin as the pages of Bibles
Sold in corner dollar stores, cheaper than
The double-packs of aspirin bottles, or

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