Chen Chen

after Sarah Gambito

I have a canoe that gives me therapy my insurance won’t cover.

The man I love calls me from Colorado, unaware of my canoe.

It offers a better kind of cognitive behavioral, in very turquoise water.

The man says his mother is dying & I say I know but nothing is clear.

I pay the canoe with my best Christopher Walken impressions.

It becomes clear that Colorado is where all calls are from, how did I not know.

He says his mother has a couple of months.

The canoe says to eat five cookies, then canoe off the calories.

He says he saw snow in New Mexico on the way to Colorado.

I see how my past is a nun who knows a lot of state birds & my future is a 
         pancake-shaped abyss.

He says his sister is having a child.

He says it’s snowing & his sister is pregnant & his mother is dying so they
         probably won’t be able to go on as many rides at Disney.

I say okay & I see but neither is true.

The sky shuts its geese-filled mouth.

Between the canoe & me there is no more discourse.

I wait for him to come back. I wait for Colorado to go away.