my father’s body is a plumb line in the pool eaten away by the toxic eyes of onlookers— and Escobar’s assassin, Popeye— who killed 250— is still hunting me— sticks to the concrete in the sun by the pool— the lyric is toxic— not given to pity— not given to the vicissitudes of the living— the lyric picks itself up off the dead— as us little white kids are dead— as I want to die— the lyric that all of Villavicencio reaches to wipe off its face—
my father’s face, my assassin’s face both brushed by pollen— silence the good— silence the god in us— disable the moron motion screen— us little white kids fallen into the arms of our mothers— carried into the shadow of the dream field where thunder cuts us down— the onlookers grow phobic— leave greasy handprints on the remote—
rolled light at the base of my father’s spine and the daffodils sprung up there— flowers for the living, too— spiraling towards Heaven— the television calls it a satellite in the loam— as the earth spins the daffodils knot into zeroes— infected splice of the machine— Behold— I saw my assassin beside the pool— I stuffed her mouth with my eye’s filament— sat and looked on as she swallowed and spat
TIM VANDYKE grew up in Colombia, South America, until guerilla warfare forced him back to the United States His most recent manuscript is Farallones (Garden Door Press, 2018). His work has most recently appeared in Typo,The Brooklyn Rail, and elsewhere.
Photo is from performance by Leif Holmstrand.