The Getty, Los Angeles, 2019
Because I am one of time’s children,things happen to me.
Tourists pick the poblanosfrom their burritos to feed the seabirds.
Planes drop clouds of red phosphoruson the ashy birches.
A man in a Tom Brady jerseynearly trips into the bust
of a Roman emperorwho slaughtered his own brother.
The sky looks wrong. My spit is brown.I won’t be here for very long.
Van Gogh’s Irises keep hummingfrom the walls, knowing
they’ll outlive me,that the violet paint they don
oozes a stillness that will bestill forever. It’s simple really.
I might just close my eyes& do it, a friend told me
two days before she justclosed her eyes & did it.
There are so many people no longerhappening, it almost makes a sound.
Matthew Tuckner is currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at NYU, where he is Poetry…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2022