Disappear
By Arlene Ang
The living room is dark
save for the white dog. Moonlit and snarling.
It is white save for the eyes
which are gaps in perception.
The first time I saw a volcano,
it was in the presence of dying. The violence
of lava. And now the brother is dead.
The dog has retained
so much of the urine stain
on the couch. How the things left behind
map their own territory.
Light from the television is drawn
to the place before
disappearing. A study in mortality.
This isn’t the world or love
made in the form of addiction. This is
a manhole inside the face inside the brother
where the brother is
secondary to the manhole.
Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being a collaborative work with Valerie Fox, Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008). She lives in Spinea, Italy where she serves as staff editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work may be viewed at www.leafscape.org.
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