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Sunday 

Dominic Gualco

I ate three tangerines in my backyard, piling the peels at my feet. I returned inside, throwing the peels over the ten-foot steel fence that Jesus Christ built to separate our backyards.

An hour later he knocked at my door, the tangerine peels in his right fist.

I said to him, “Go away, I feel tired today,” but he continued to knock at my door.

Again I said to him, “Go away, I feel tired of being alive today,” but he continued to knock at my door.

I told him to leave the peels at my door, that I would throw them away, but he kept to knocking at my door.

He knocked at my door until his fists became tangerines and my ears became loose with all the noise.

I got a screwdriver from the kitchen cupboard and unscrewed the door hinges. I removed the door from the hinges and lay it at his feet.

He removed a handsaw from his bathrobe pockets. I asked Jesus Christ what he was doing with the handsaw.

He didn’t say anything and sawed the tangerines from his arms, leaving two sticks without leaves. He laid the tangerines at my feet.

We each took our gifts and parted, returning to our respective homes.

[Mythical Allusion to Death]

Dominic Gualco

In the morning he calls
from the fog,
asking you to stand
above the dinosaurs.

Your heart sheds itself
through your skin: a long metal needle
extending from your chest.

On Ash Wednesday you begin
to throw one piece of silverware
in the trash bin each morning.

You tell yourself you don’t want
to be happy, that happy people are boring.

One day you catch a trout, throw yourself
back into the sea.