All the Unemployed Artists I Know Have iPhones:
We walked to the sea with a bucket
and a hand rake. We dug out our
kidneys, put them in the bucket, then
waited for rain you said the weatherman
promised. On the beach, we lay
tangled like the leashes of euthanized
house pets, red trails from our bodies
tied together at points, then keeping
a passionate, rational distance. You
passed out first but before you did
your moan—your wheeze, your
attempts to prove that we’d been
foolish in thinking this kind of illiterate
protest would garner any significant
attention from my already uninterested
family—was lost in the knuckle and waste
of some cars along the highway. Still, your
gasps were perfectly pitched—a string of
low sharps and minors that left me quietly
thinking about the theme song from
Mr. Belvedere. Where we dropped the rake
your sunhat sat resting next to a hole-cut
sheet I couldn’t quite reach. As you began
your seizure, I thought: we just might live
the good life yet.
***
Daniel Khalastchi is the author of two books of poetry, Manoleria (Tupelo Press, 2011) and Tradition (McSweeney’s, 2015). He lives in Iowa City and is the co-founder and managing editor of Rescue Press.
