the mundane, #3 & #4:

my landlady is old as hell,
hell being the armenian genocide
that caused her parents to send her
to greece without them.
she told me she never saw her family again,
clutching my arm tightly while she
handed me my lease.

her apartment living room is surrounded by
daguerreotypes of dead relatives.
she has replaced their old casings
with brightly colored plastic frames.
i gawk at the pictures
sitting up in their new frames
as if lifted from chromatic coffins.

inside her bathroom
there is another wake:
above the toilet is
a portrait of a grey infant
with droopy eyes painted blue,
dye that has since dripped down
what were once cheeks,
what were once lips.
i am afraid to touch the picture,
to bruise the child,
his skin a decaying emulsion.

my landlady surprises me
every time i encounter her
she holds me so close,
a stranger-daughter,
and she kisses me,
like she has thought about me
for so long,
and she tells me she loves me,
a promise of love that will outlive herself.


.

let my single word to you transmit
through the blood stream i enter
with my teeth at your lip.

let my single word be packed up
with your clean shirts and pants,
when you leave my apartment for good.

and if you won’t take it,
toss my single word
into the swimming pool of my complex;
the guttural sound to drown itself.