The art in this room pacifies me.
One sculpture: a bright red short building
with trees painted on its sides.
It has this certain city tone to it.
Some art liar says that Georgia O’Keefe
inspired something that is nothing like her own.

It all tries to make sense in my head.
I point to the sculpture while Mother sways
her head thinking it could never make sense.

We are up on the top floor of the Empire State
Building and everything below is so tiny.
The ground shakes, the sculptures move,
then suddenly people flood the elevator.

My sister, a native New Yorker, says
‘wait, wait, wait’ as an old bellhop
nervously taps his foot. She breaks
the door with her arms. We are crowded,
travelling straight down with gravity.
We and this faux art,
we and all the rudeness of strangers
rustling in an elevator about to sink.
Everything to Hell.

Finally, the door opens and there is no lobby
but a huge hole that was once inhabited
by a wall and some revolving doors.
It has a certain ‘je ne sais qua-perhaps,
the rustic entrance to the aftermath wilderness
housing rivers of blood. We go outside
to discover Father is missing.
And the moon is blocking the sun.