by Matthew LaVigne
I can say with certainty, now
that you don’t know
the when or the how of it.
How could you?
…when it was the Twelfth
of a Winter’s Triangle
and we had already chosen
the harvest sacrifice,
hoping this year
the displays of fireworks
and spilt milk
would ensure a future
without too much heat,
or too much cold,
and just the right amount
of rain, when I lost
the thought I was thinking, just then,
as The Invalids of Friday started up,
swearing their oaths and incantations
to a sacred photo of Scott Baio
hung in the center of town.
Strange stars burned
above the rooftops
of every mother-in-law
apartment in West Chester
that evening…
That evening,
when I told you,
“I don’t understand.”
M. LaVigne is beginning to suspect he may actually be a brain in a jar.
A-Minor 