Friday, April 23, 2021

napowrimo day no. 22


The man who sells magazines has the largest hands I've ever seen.  

               Keeps licking his fingers, fondling the pages. His tongue darts out, 

                                  then back in and my knees ache with spring. With the hinges in my haunches, 

the feathers in my lungs.  The whipoorwill spins on its weathervane

                in every direction. What is desire, but a soft turning of every gear

                                  in the body? The wrought interior, where the prism shatters with sun.


What is want,  but a fistful of pennies in the mouth?  A slap, a kiss. 

               The cabinet where the shelves are always empty. How do we determine 

                                 the border between lovers, the levers that twitch and release? 

The space behind the garden shed where my head bent against

                  the paint and left a mark. The hand prints on my thighs 

                                   and the bluebells in my hair. The ticking of the metronome 

inside the heart that pulls the wire that shakes the rattle 

                   that breaks the glass again and again.