EM DASH

all i keep in my wallet these days

is wax paper and a condom.

this year, i am learning

to hide guns and print money.

when i visit my little sister,

my body catches in the branches.

the milkweed on the banks

is thinning like my father's hair,

but i am glad to see it go.

i welcome winter, the semblance

of death it accompanies,

and how it empties the city

and fills the suburbs

with em dashes.

i am taking mass in a wineglass,

baptising my children in petroleum,

calling myself a recovered moralist,

and asking for angels.

(but where do birds go

in the cold days?

they keep flying home

without feathers.)

here i am, beginning

my story again on a rooftop,

while my sister paints

roses in california.

i mock her with politics,

and pretend that someday,

the intensity of my words

will shock the liberals.