Upon the Disappearance of Zanky Muldoon


Upon discovering the disappearance of Zanky Muldoon,

We sleep in our outerwear.

We ponder the whistle

Evading our pork,

as we chase it around the yard,


Upon waking to the knowledge

That Zanky has parted,

We must ask our children,

"Did you eat him?

Did you dunk him in the toilet?

Did you hack into hotmail.com

and delete the account?"

Our children just stare,




run away

and hide.

"Mommy and Daddy are insane,"

They tell the neighbors,

Who stare at us in the night

through curtains drawn,

leaving only a crack.

Zanky was muffin, undoubtedly.

Zanky was the ratio

of embolisms to synapses

inside the noodle of Cob.

But Zanky was also our wrench.

Zanky was also our salad on sober days,

our contagious meddling on nights without z.

We wonder, Zanky, are you billowing?

Does your sail leave a mark

on the sky,

as you pass under clouds

of imponderable ale?

Do you set the moon on edge

The way, when you took all of our skin with you,

you did us?