Baby Shower by Maria Roche

That’s All, Folks
by Daniel Porder

The wall’s a tapestry of bad books,
something like a sky
of ordered rain clouds.
And the music’s low enough
that there is no music
other than wind confessing
distant disasters.
What do I have to confess?
I’m sifting through shadows
sprouting from the floor,
introducing dust
to a poker-faced ceiling.  
I want to electrify my skin.
I want to topple
my brainstem’s tower.
My body’s stuck with me
and I will stand inside its static,
fading out like the colors
of a movie. My final request
is that you leave before the credits,
that you do not applaud,
do not sob and do not remember.