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I'm leaving you, and that is all there is to it.
Never forgive me, because
that would make me forgivable and ruin
my destiny as a thorny briquet spurt free
of the BBQ just as you passed a sloppy
burger to my father who then passed
into the earth sudden as a thunderstorm.
Someone you love is angry about
the decisions he's made, and must carefully
arrange and rearrange his pots and pans
in secret compartments away from the world.
He's going to yank these old
brown cupboards off the walls, glue in
some bright yellow ones that sing when
you open them—a stream of green
swallows will pour forth to flit about your head.
by Joel Giroux
from: Larger than
Still Life, ©2003
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