As The Woman Decides Whether to Lay Her Hand On the Infant's Mouth:                                             

Call & Response

For Dean Young

Monroe or whatever his name is (corner right apartment, down below), comes out              to scream
at the orchestra of screaming, swerving birds.
Upstairs savoring the evening concert I watch as frightened, they all fly away
& quietly think—Burka, corset, old black veil.
There's an unidentified orange flower on the glass table in a bowl—
Sometimes I must wear the color black.
In the morning, on the steps, a child practices numbers,
calling them out as people pass. Some touch her hair.
Good child, little girl.  Like mercury, for the day quickly put the                              dangerous dress away,
gather prime numbers, stack silver bracelets, sound out language, make food. 
Gather the hours, the old lace veils, watch everyone closely, also the shivering              clouds, 
also the happiness of clinging leaves. Watch for different & new birds, 12:16,              12:08,
backwards/forwards— people just keep arriving in the fields of days,
some nearly invisible. Maybe, in the end I'll get caught staring. It all seems              somehow
so important. Yet, if I ask the flower what it's doing here I suppose it would say,              "I fucking don't know man", 
before it tries to tell me everything by sitting quietly in its clear glass bowl.

— Holaday Mason