by Alejandro Escudé
The kitchen lightbulb is without maker despite the
Prominent GE. The table is not Ikea, it’s where
We eat, the space where my daughter throws
Vegetables isn’t a diamond like the one the Dodgers
Play in. The car I drive is not a Ford even though
It’s labeled a Ford. The movie has boundaries around it.
But the boundaries do not keep them out.
They are everywhere. Artists are branded cows.
Are there boundaries around a church? Is the vessel
Engraved with the name of the holy engraver?
Do the pews display the curly script of Coca Cola?
Are the blue Walmart seat cushions for the choir?
Does Clayton Kershaw pitch for Jockey underwear?
What makeup brand is on Cate Blanchet’s lips?
Beach Budweiser bosom blondes on the towel.
McDonald’s, Google, Norway, Papa Johns.
Putting it all on, one wonders, is it the search
For love or materialism? Or is it the love in materialism
That spins the green Maserati? My son points out
The poverty-stricken moon. She is old. Hobbling
In the twilight. What holds her up is not so much
Gravity, but time. Time that bunches up in your palm,
The day-old sky—clouds ablaze. Then the stories
We tell in the dark, when we stop trying to be smart.