My Assassin’s Body

My assassin’s body sits in the sun— pity be on the daffodil’s head— like thick harlots riding a dragon— plummeting from the sky— dogs sniff them and lick them by the pool— I leave them there and wade in— a sporadic abasement that keeps me in good spirits— that is to say the lyric is also toxic— the pool is named after the river it sits by— the Guataquia— river in all my dreams— I dreamt my father swam the whole night and threw his body on the shore for all to see— my father’s body was a prism that let others peer into the darkness— let us see the many shades of color there— his body was blue all over on account of death— body covered in soft teeth from the dogs— baby teeth from us little white kids— the punctured lungs of my assassin— us little white kids pee in the pool but no one notices— I stoop to drink and find blood  in the drain— flakes of skin floating like lily pads— on the shore are empty beer cans caught in the weeds like lice in hair— us little white kids peel back the face of my assassin and stuff it with spinach—  stuff Popeye with spinach— Popeye who is Escobar’s assassin— green like spring and well muscled— my father’s body right after his execution— displayed in a morgue— displayed across the nation on TVs— on Good Morning America— beamed into my living room right before school— beamed into the homes of countless watchers— and entering the room I watched, too—

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