Smoke in the Shape of Teemu with the Shin Guard in His Mouth

When Teemu was a puppy—
his hyperness caged
in the back room where dad
would sneak menthols, blowing at
the window's black night glare—

when I'd
wink through the missing doorknob

(when blood would billow
like its own sort of smoke
in the bent
ear)

when I’d spy on our genetic miasma
granted brief shape
by
the young-dad
breath
(granted brief shape
by the young-dad
smoke):

I swear
the world had not yet really
even been born.

What was that pre-natal world of
permanent lilac—
of neat new rooms
nail-gunned in new carpet
newness

(unlit cigarette newness—
fresh coffee newness, the
internal organs of
the lilac
turning itself
inside out
newness
newness
newness)?

When the lungs
are young and soft
like lilac skin

the smoke from
fathers
promises something
intense—

a holy
perfect
cough
in some
far-off
inheritance.

To approach now my parents' age then, to
lose track of anniversaries of Teemu's decrepit
death—to surrender the house and its eternal
backroom to modern bachelors
memorizing our
local gas station
ice cream
selections

to abandon our stains is to give in totally
to the sickening stomach
of nightmare nothing.

When—
in the near future—
an ambulance races up
St. Joseph Street

whirling like a seizure
of Christmas-colored
sound

what will it mean

that by the time it hits
Walce
the sirens have been
extinguished
and the brakes
have again
clutched to
the speed limit:

what has died inside

to cause our efforts
so suddenly
to quit?

So, in celebration
of my infinite asking—

can
this
really
be
all?—

I have filled the coffee pot
with Easter candy crumbs
and crabapple dirt

the smoke of our breath

stirred with clothes hangers
from the floors of our closets.

I have pissed in each corner of the backyard
like a puppy made ecstatic
by its own mechanics.